Epilogue
by ElDarkoMarko
Summary: The epilogue that you dream JK Rowling will write. But she won’t. Warning for slight slash content. Very AU as of Rowling's sickening display in Nineteen Years Later from DH but we're assured you will adore this anyway.
1. Epilogue, Part One

**Epilogue**

**By:** Team Dark Marks for EE!

**Rated: **R (M) for language, some sexuality, and an undertone of slash

**Genre:** Drama

**Disclaimer:** Everything is JK's but for the plot and its confounding greatness.

**Summary: **The epilogue that you dream JK Rowling will write. But she won't. Snape and Luna discuss the fine points of life in an interview that is almost as freaky as that one with Kirsten and a vampire. Warning: this story contains a taste of slash (male-on-male pairing). All pairings involved with our tale are withheld for your suspense.

_**Authors' Note: This story was made by a team of people, of all different ages from twelve to early twenties. Different writing styles and levels have intermingled and ideas have been brought together from over seven minds. As this fanfiction was created in response to a challenge - the rules and requirements are cause for some instances in the plot that might seem a little farfetched from the original premise. All in all, we've done our very best to take the requirements and a complex plot idea and connect the two to make a story that flows and hopefully entertains and provokes thoughts and dare we add - feelings. Enjoy and leave a comment if you will. Writing credits at the end.**_

**Must Includes:** All these elements must be included in your fanfiction. Unless otherwise stated, the bare minimum to count as an inclusion is at least a reference. The dialogue you need to get in can be spoken by any character.

**Characters:** Luna Lovegood, Severus Snape, Voldemort (Must have at least 4 lines of dialogue and interact with another character)

**Locations:** Shrieking Shack, Knockturn Alley (A short scene in each)

**Spells/Potions:** Babbling Beverage, engorgio, rictusempra

**Items:** Half empty bottle of Firewhiskey, Falmouth Falcons Quidditch Shirt, A bagel, Marauder's Map, Floo Powder, Extendable Ears

**Creatures:** Niffler, The Giant Squid

**Lines:** "I think I'd rather be snogged by a dementor." "Who would have ever thought belly-dancing could be so pleasurable?" "You do know that's illegal in 87 countries!" "Can't you make a potion to fix that?"

**Optional Includes:** You don't have to include these but they're worth bonus points if you manage to work them in well. Just slapping them in won't work!

**Characters:** Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Narcissa Malfoy, Blaise Zabini (Must have at least 2 lines of dialogue and interact with another character)

**Locations:** Three Broomsticks, Forbidden Forest

**Spells/Potions:** Amortentia, Deflating Draught, incarcerous

**Items:** Time Turner, Pensieve, U-No-Poo, Firebolt, Kilt

**Creatures:** Kneazle

**Lines:** "Keep your Jimmy Choo's on!" "What's under Snape's cloak? I don't know but it'll be fun finding out!" "Is that your wand, or are you just pleased to see me?"

_**Our Epilogue, Part One of Two**_

**Knockturn Alley at **the noon hour was not an area to be unusually crowded, even on a weekend, and accordingly the silence of its narrow streets were in parallel to this sentiment on a musky Tuesday afternoon, mid-September.

The last lingering touches of warmth from summer had faded yet the air was still thick, the liability of this condition holding blame perhaps in the gloomy, dark streets of the alley than deviation in the weather patterns. It was no large vicinity by any means: small dingy shops were cramped together in lanes that could hardly hold the width of two wizards standing side by side. Seven steps made by a child could generously describe the street, and vendors took up space like a sore thumb sporting a triple hangnail on a manicured hand.

Considered the dregs of the Diagon Alley region by most (though immediately after The War not many could decipher between the two from exterior alone), it was named home to a select few who appreciated its grim silence as a sort of peace taken for granted in ordinary lifetimes.

Such were the feelings of Awilda, a hunching, white-haired witch who had lived so long in Knockturn Alley most visitors considered her ageless, a commodity that came with the setting. She owned a single cart, with a single tray, holding neat rows of human fingernails - varying from the newborn variety to as yellowing and curled as what remained of her teeth. How she made her living was not quite sure because the product of her stock was not of the thriving variety, yet she was out each day, a half smile played across her wrinkled and browning lips, calling to the passersby who turned their heads to avoid the sight and smell of her trademark items in equal measure. Awilda expected the same today, especially on a day so dull and tiresome as a Tuesday, when at times all she could do for amusement was engage in a thumb war by herself, extra pairs of nails attached to her own to heighten the stakes.

It was undoubtedly a slight shock when she was interrupted from a particularly heated play (she had gone as far as to include five spare fingernails on each of her knobby thumbs) by a low, throaty voice directed her way, cutting through the midday air much as a sharp axe through soft bark.

"Is it safe to assume that business is booming, dear Awilda?" It was a man who spoke, a slight snake of a man with paper pale skin and a nose that curled defiantly over his thin, smirking lips.

"Eh, boy?" She spat. "What be yer intentions pestering an elderly hag suchan' meself?" Awilda's thick grey eyebrows moved in concordance to her cold words and she straightened to as tall as her humped back would permit her.

The man cocked his own brow, one just as thick as the woman's but jet-black and severe against his ashen complexion.

"Not all of the ugly refer to themselves so unwaveringly as old," he said with little interest, his eyes becoming focused on the scattering of hand nails that had fallen from her own bent palms over the otherwise obsessively structured collection.

It was her piercing retort that salvaged his attention, "N' not all'n the ugly refers to t'emselves so unwaverin'ly as witty, Sev'rus!" She cocked her chin in boldness and stood with a mock smirk on her own face, mirroring his own. He could not help but chuckle.

"And after all these years you do remember me."

"Like remeberin' me own backside, boy."

"Ah, certainly it's charm that has kept you working this long, Awilda."

Severus Snape was in no hurry to his destination today; in fact, he had hoped his diversion of visiting the aged witch would have taken much longer than it had, but the flippant attention span of the crafty spinster had no sooner alighted upon his face then back to her precious nail collection, as she began resorting and separating the garish (but nonetheless delicate) bunch into a new pattern.

He wished not to be maudlin over the steady, knowing actions over her beloved merchandise, yet as he made his way along the quiet streets of the deserted alley he acknowledged that Awilda's ceremonious sorting of her produce mirrored his new life: the past two years after The War had come with much reshuffling and assessment.

The dismal, distorted pattern of his being was beginning to come together in ways he had never even thought could be possible - and he knew it was _her_, mostly _her _- but in view of she being the reason he was even in the position he was now, ambling towards a two-bit dining hovel not fit enough to feed the lot of Hagrid's flobberworms, he scowled and tore his mind away from the thought.

**It was ****necessary** to have the knowledge of precisely where The Hole in the Wall was or one might never find it. It had no sign or real name, but patrons had become accustomed to referring to it as just that, a hole in the wall, that the title had stuck for years after.

The Hole had no door but rather an old burlap curtain over a slim opening that, despite appearances, held in the warmth during winter and allowed a breeze during summer. It was all old wood and cracked tiles, with dark corners that most steered clear of and a singular window so decorated with cobwebs and grime it seemed its own drapes from the outside world. The bar was a counter that looked more like just a plain slab of splintering wood than a sturdy surface for many men to drink upon. But then again, there were only two aged stools before it for the fortunate first comers of the day. A ragged magic carpet that was too elderly and stupid for transport instead levitated high enough to be a third seat.

For those not early enough to claim their places at the bar, there were a handful of tables set for two scattered in the small space. The Hole operated on a first come first serve basis, a rule elected by the ageless bartender who overlooked his slight business proudly, a stout, cock-eyed man with a face so furry that he was nicknamed Kneazle by his mother and called that ever after. The Hole served more than fish and chips but few were bold enough to try anything other than that, preferring, instead, to vary with their drinks since as thrifty as Kneazle was, his alcohol selection was quite diverse.

Kneazle thought he had seen everything in his time at The Hole, but no recollection matched the oddity of sighting his first customer of today, who rushed in through the curtain entrance so rapidly he thought it was just a rough bout of wind. He would have still thought as much if, seconds later, there was not a flash of blonde and then a loud whapping sound as flesh met ground.

A bag of supplies including paper, quills and ink, a _thing_ that looked like a very elongated ear, and a tiny corked holder of a fizzy liquid rolled noisily onto the floor. The sack's owner cursed under her breath as she recovered from her fall, before scrambling to collect the items spilled from the bag, shoving them in while muttering incoherently about something that could have been, "bloody loose plywood."

She straightened and took a breath, smoothing out her clothing: a Falmouth Falcons Quidditch shirt that was slightly oversized and hung over her striped blue and grey slacks, those of which were folded upwards at the bottom to better display a pair of black velvet clogs. It was the strangest getup Kneazle had ever seen, and he had witnessed Benny Giberson in nothing but leather and fishnets. Purple fishnets.

The young woman's blonde hair was in a professional knot at the nape of her neck, or had been until she tripped, strands of shoulder length hair now resting in wisps about her red face, her lips twisted in frustration. What stood out most about her were protruding blue eyes, large and slow to blink and, at the moment, a little watery.

Kneazle had never been married and had no daughters, and it was rare that a woman came into The Hole, but he suddenly knew in the pit of his stomach that this girl needed a drink more than she needed her next breath of air. He pulled out his finest Firewhiskey and a tall glass and waited politely.

**Luna Lovegood knew** she was a mess, drowning in a wreck of her own muddied nerves. She took a deep breath and tried to separate herself from the humiliation of the fall, smoothing the front of her jersey and trying to regain composure. When she was more or less collected she straightened her spine and peered around the empty pub, content that at least she had gotten there first, no Snape or other audience to have seen her tumble. Well, except for the bartender, and though his face was almost too hairy to tell, she was sure he was smiling at her. She hoped the grin was not of ridicule and something inside of her told her it was not, so she headed towards him with a shy smile of her own, determined to not let one mishap of the day have her leave a bad impression.

"Good morning sir," she began formally as she reached him, "My name is Luna Lovegood and I have selected this quaint establishment for the sight of an interview that will be in the very next issue of the highly famous and reputable magazine, The Quibbler. Don't feel pressured to attend to me with regal services, I want nothing but a table in a private location and I do believe I've found it here at the… er… the… place you have here…" she ended lamely, faltering when she realized she had no idea what "the place" was called. Not knowing what else to do, she shoved out a hand towards him and was thankful when he grabbed it heartily and shook, a chuckle escaping his wooly face.

"You needn't have those formal'ties and thin's in here Miss Luna Lovegood, we're all friends in The Hole. Now, yeh did look like yeh needed a drink dearie, so I took th' liberty of havin' one out for yeh."

Luna thanked him vigorously as she scooped the bottle of Firewhiskey into her arms (the glass remained forgotten) and picked out a table farthest from the door. She couldn't be certain that Snape would not try to bolt when it came to the nitty-gritty of things.

Snape. She still could not believe he was meeting with her today. For an interview, no less.

The interview that could jump-start her fledgling career as a journalist or just as suddenly raze it to ashes. Her father allowed Luna no leeway with her job at The Quibbler, even as his daughter, strictly telling her that if this golden opportunity - one which had not been so ripe as from the time when Harry Potter opened himself up to the magazine - did not go favorably she would be hauling coffee from cubicles in the office for the next five years, no wand allowed.

"But no pressure, Lady Lunalove," he had said planting a kiss on her forehead before she left today, trying to soothe her with his favorite pet name. Right. Of course. No bloody pressure.

But there was pressure, a ton of it, because this was not an ordinary interview with an ordinary man who would converse in an ordinary way and treat her as an ordinary acquaintance.

She had arranged a talk with Severus Snape: a man who had stayed quiet from the public after completing his trials, a man who found her so insignificant that in her first three years at Hogwarts he had called her Loren Levy, a Ravenclaw alumna who had left the school years prior. He was the shadow of an enigma, seemingly impermeable to the challenges of questioning.

She had figured he would be a mastermind at evading a question but at what lengths he went to evade an interview she had never heard of before. It was only when she reached Hermione Granger (Luna's last hope for getting to him), did he finally consent to her offer, on conditions that the location was a place completely private and that she waste more than an afternoon of his time.

Luna had eagerly agreed and now here she was, wishing she could leave and abandon the whole stupid notion of a groundbreaking exposé. The idea had been plaguing her since she had begun to think more deeply about the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore (at least now, after the trials, they all knew it was not murder). What were his motives and mind-set towards his part in Dumbledore's death? It had grown in a frenzy from there. Not only did she want to know the back-story of Dumbledore's death, she wanted to know of his life now and what he had in store for the future.

The article had manifested in her mind for over a year and through painstaking measures she began slow, rudimentary attempts to contact Snape. Months of rejection and mystification followed as Snape turned her down no matter how she spun the interrogation. Letters were returned to her unopened and bottles of noxious looking substances had arrived at her door with little notes in spidery writing attached that read "Drink me, I taste like candy." But eventually this back and forth was not enough; she had taken up writing silly blurbs for her father's magazine as a means of making a living.

When Luna finally proposed what she had been thinking of doing on Snape to her father, he had offered her a real career at The Quibbler, more than someone who wrote two sentences on the possibility of Mandrake pus being used to make toddlers smarter if added to heated milk and stirred fifty-three times counterclockwise.

She was desperate for the position as a journalist for The Quibbler, desperate to taste the success in the only field of life she found herself contented in, desperate to believe that perhaps this article would propel her to the level of launching a publication of her own, so she did not have to always heed her domineering father. Desperate times made Luna call for desperate measures, and her desperate measure was to call on Hermione Granger, who she had lost contact with after the girl's sixth year in school. And it had all come together from there.

Now all Luna could do was sit and wait for her charge, fingering idly at the glistening Firewhiskey bottle before her. She almost smirked as she realized how funny it was to think of Professor Snape as her charge, instead of the other way around.

And she was still smirking at the exact moment when her charge happened to storm in, black robes billowing behind him, wasting no time as he strolled up to their table and hovered before her, a sinister look on his sallow features.

"Miss. Lovegood, if you desired to have me meet with you so you could leer at me until my eyes shrivel and fall out of their sockets I strongly advise you go back home and rethink your facial expressions before requesting my services again."

Luna's face fell slack. There was a panicked moments of silence as she sought an appropriate response to such a testy greeting.

Gulping, she tried to make her tone polite and gestured courteously at the Firewhiskey as she stood to properly greet him. "I came bearing gifts," she lied, hoping Kneazle did not overhear her re-gifting her former Professor. As she did with bartender she did with Snape, putting out a hand, the other one at her side with fingers vaguely crossed.

Snape did not take her hand but he did raise an eyebrow and seat himself, letting his long fingers wrap around the bottle, pull off the top, sniffing at it before he took two long gulps of the amber liquid, killing a quarter of the bottle in half as many seconds. He swallowed slowly, deliberately, and peered at Luna through discerning black eyes. He placed the bottle back to the middle of the table but letting the cap fiddle idly in his hand.

"Do be seated, Miss. Lovegood."

Luna tried not to show her irritation at being the one ordered to sit, like a child, but she knew that was most likely what he wanted, a rise out of her to see what this was really all about.

She would show him. With newfound determination, she sat and folded one arm over the other on the tabletop, leaning in towards Snape to say simply, "Hermione."

It was obviously not what the man had been expecting because his face contorted into a look that suggested he might regurgitate the alcohol so recently swallowed.

Collecting himself, Snape breathed through his nose and resisted the urge to massage his throbbing temple.

"I presume, Miss. Lovegood, that you want to talk about Hermione Granger, and if so I beg to ask why you would draw her into a discussion I thought was solely on the subject of myself." His eyes had narrowed with each word and he eyed Luna warily.

It was with great restraint that Luna did not whoop gleefully at his reaction, knowing – as any decent reporter would – that expressions speak inordinately louder than words.

She felt confidant enough to slip the small flask of babbling beverage, which she had been grasping tightly in her hands since sitting, back into the depths of her purse, because now she was sure he would at least attempt to talk about himself.

"I assure you, Professor Snape, that this meeting is about you, but you can probably guess how I've made the conclusion that Hermione Granger is now a lot about you too. For this interview to work, I need you to let me in on _all_ facets of your life with openness and honesty…" Seeing Snape stiffen further she added, with aggressive innocence, "And I do think Hermione would agree…"

Snape cut her off, "Oh all right you importunate girl, get on with it if you must."

He looked up to The Hole's ceiling as if wishing it to fall on himself, or maybe on top of her. When it stayed put above, he refocused his gaze on Luna and waited for her to ask.

She had wiped an almost stupidly triumphant grin off her face just in time to probe Snape again as he turned his attention back to her.

"Let's go back to the very beginning of it all: how exactly did you and she happen?"

Snape sighed soundlessly and stared at his clenched hands that had wrung together in his lap, trying to determine the best way to answer.

Should Luna know of the dream he had the first week of school that very year Hermione Granger had arrived at Hogwarts? It had been anything but a perverted night vision; instead, it was a more unsettling dream in which a faceless girl with a feral brown mane of hair had stormed up to him and harshly cried, "Who are you, Severus Snape?"

The next afternoon in Potions, teaching the Slytherin and Gryffindor group of first years, he had looked upon Miss. Granger, hand waving keenly in the air, and known it was her who asked the question of which his dream self had no certain answer.

Or had it happened the first time they met again.

It was the summer after he had killed Albus and fled. In the eye of the battle's storm, Snape found himself caught in Hermione's path and she in his.

Hermione cried at the sight of him. With words doused in tears and hatred she asked, "Who are you, Severus Snape?"

The question, the sound of her voice, and the remembrance of when he had first been asked the very same thing by that very same voice had caused him to stagger backwards and she had thrust herself out and caught him, her nails slicing into his arms through his Death Eater's cloak, because Hermione Granger never let go until she had an answer.

To Luna he said, "I'm not quite sure."

Luna had seen memories flash before his eyes in those seconds of silence, but she went with a different angle so as not to strain the exceptionally guarded man, "Well, Professor, was it gradual or did it happen fast? Were you aware of your feelings during her years at school or –"

"Don't dare suggest that I imposed an inappropriate relationship with a student during my time at Hogwarts, Miss. Lovegood, because you will only live long enough to regret it," Snape cut in, his face growing a little whiter.

Luna paled as well, her heart clunking against her chest as she tried to correct her ill-timed error, "That's not what I meant, I –"

He interrupted her again. "Stop. I know," he shook his head a little before clearing his throat, "You'll have to forgive me for my shortness eventually once this day ends, because there will certainly be more of it. But you can understand how the idea of having one's life displayed in someone else's words can put one on edge? The last thing I need now in my life is more delusional impressions."

"To answer your first question, Miss. Lovegood, and it may as well include the others - there was no definite beginning or spark or moment that defines my relationship with Hermione Granger. There was certainly no intimacy or love lost during my six years of teaching her at Hogwarts; moreover, I found her an irksome chit who desired to know and do too much for her own good. I respected her intelligence but was repelled by her incessant meddling into areas of knowledge that she had no business protruding her bushy head into. We 'happened' in multifarious stages that are unknown to me, but I do know it has led me up to this point of where the two of us stand today, together. I am neither prude nor liar, yet I do not believe our private lives should be paraded around wizarding England. Do know that everything that 'happened' between us was and is entirely consensual between two adults, and I suppose it 'began' and will end as such because we did not take up in any way that may be construed as unlawful until her seventeenth birthday had gone and passed for many months."

Luna had sat quietly and listened, far too fearful that she would put an end to this exposed moment of talkativeness to interrupt, entranced at his precise words that were more revealing than he let on. She wondered if he intended that because, though he had said nothing of the sort, Luna was sure he had just established that he and Hermione were indeed a couple, that he cared for her and their relationship a great deal more than he cared for himself, and that the relationship had long since been consummated.

The last of these realizations nearly made her choke on her own saliva, which she masked into a hacking cough, spinning away from Snape and bending slightly to ride it through. Snape sat still, waiting for her to compose herself, one black brow positioned high above the other.

"Still alive, Miss. Lovegood?"

"I'm fine, P-professor, just fine," she gasped, waving a hand at him.

Taking deep breaths to collect herself, she turned once again to her old Professor and could have sworn that she saw amusement overriding his expression. The look quickly changed to disinterest before she could register his humor. A rather silly idea flashed through her mind and she had to hide a smile of her own as she acted upon it.

"I see, Professor Snape. Now, to a more serious matter, who would you say 'wears the pants' in your relationship?"

It was Snape's turn to splutter.

"I thought so," Luna muttered to herself, smirking once more and making a mental note to be used for later.

**It had been **less than two weeks ago when Hermione had come up quietly behind Snape and snaked her arms around his neck, kissing him lightly on the side of his face as he flipped through the Prophet and munched on a margarine-drenched bagel. She knew he was only pretending to take no notice of her as he stared a mite too interestedly at an advertisement for a new installment of U-No-Poo product at Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

This didn't mean Hermione would vie for his attention any less. She reached further over and bit into the bagel that was making its way back to his lips, laughing with her mouthful as his head snapped in her direction and he glared, holding the now offensive food item at an arm's length distance.

"May I ask what it ever did to you, Hermione?"

She rolled her eyes and situated herself onto his lap, removing the bagel from his hands and placing it back onto the dish. She wanted no distractions for her lover as she prepared to ask him a favor that he would be undoubtedly and ridiculously stubborn about. She ran a hand through his inky black hair, marveling at how silken it felt in her fingers, though it looked more akin to an oil spill over his long, pale face.

"What do you think about talking with Luna Lovegood - she was a Ravenclaw just a year below me - for an article to be in The Quibbler?" Hermione tread over her words carefully but she felt Snape stiffen immediately at the mention of Luna and knew this could prove more difficult than she originally imagined.

"I think I'd rather be snogged by a dementor." His face held no trace of humor.

"Really Severus," she said, exasperated. Pulling away from him, she slipped to her feet and rest her hands on her hips, an accusatory stare meeting his gaze. "First, I find out today that she has been almost literally on her knees, begging you for months, to speak out to her and the world, to open yourself up once and for all in interview that might enable you to walk freely in the streets each day without at least one wisearse shrieking "murderer" in your direction. You know what it did for Harry in our fifth year! What's more, this can help the poor girl, her father still has not let her have a steady job at the magazine and her idea for this article - which I find rather brilliant by the way - with you, Severus Snape, could change all of that."

Her tirade did not leave him feeling particularly moved.

"The girl is near mad, Hermione, and you know that as well as me. I shudder to think what could happen to my own mental state if locked in a room with her for even a minute with the formidable task of explaining myself. Can you not see the headlines already? 'Severus Snape pleas insanity in slaying of young reporter when questioned persistently on opinion of cabbage-shaped earrings.'"

Hermione's eyes rolled skywards yet again. "Oh that is precisely what they would all say."

He nodded, seeming satisfied with the impression that the discussion was over.

But it was not.

"And what if I told you I gave Luna the right of using extendable ears to listen in while we have sex if you did not agree to meet with her?" Hermione was almost on her last resort, "I'm sure she could scrape together a quite lengthy, must-read commentary on what she learnt in that experience." Her tone was smug as she registered Snape's eyebrows rising so high upon his forehead that they almost disappeared from sight into his hairline.

"Then I'd tell you that I am quite capable of living without sex," he replied brusquely as he picked up the half finished newspaper and burrowed his large nose within it again.

"Really Severus."

"Really Hermione."

Before he could process what was happening he felt a body lunge between his legs and the wet heat of a mouth snacking on him through the fabric of his trousers.

"For the love of Merlin, woman!" He jumped slightly and the newspaper flew from his hands and settled in disarray over the table. He stood hastily and took a few steps away from Hermione, who sat kneeling partially under the table, her face flushed and a demonic smile upon her pouted lips. He knew why she was so complacent because his obvious erection pressed against his own thigh, and he shut his eyes in defeat for it was beyond doubt to late to hide it.

"And I think we both know I did not engorgio that, Professor Snape," she commented silkily.

He sighed. "You did not really tell Luna Lovegood she could listen in on our sex, did you?"

"No, but it was sheer pleasure to witness your facial expression when you thought I had."

"I'll contact the girl tomorrow then, Miss. Granger, but I do believe you have some unfinished business to take care of..." He gestured to the bulge in his pants.

"Take a deflating draught, Professor."

"Hermione!"

"I'm only kidding Severus," she said laughing brightly, walking over to the disgruntled man and placing her lips to his neck, "you know I never leave my business unfinished," she breathed. Her hands trailed downwards from his chest.

**It was routine** that the two had begun to rebuild the shattered pieces of their lives upon.

First, it was finding a new home, for neither of their mothers had wanted anything to do with their sons once the dust from battle had settled. Narcissa Malfoy had attempted suicide by jumping off the balcony of the bedroom she and Lucius once shared, but a house elf tending to the rose garden had seen just in time and levitated her to safety. Narcissa had the elf put to death. Her son, for whom she had dealt people's lives upon to keep safe from harm, was all but kicked to the road with not much more than a trunk of clothing and his wand. It was paradoxical to the point of being poignant.

Blaise Zabini's mother was a wanderer, a woman who dwelled in whichever mansion belonged to her present husband, and she had tired of hauling her grown son along with her. He too was left to the curb with not much more than a kiss on the cheek and a pet on his head for farewell.

So they had rented a flat together, it made sense enough.

The flat was in a Muggle district just outside of London, a simple redbrick building in an area where people tipped their hats low over their faces while going home to dissuade greetings from the others walking around them. It was solitary and affordable; two factors which years ago would have most likely turned the two boys away, but now was the one thing that drew them towards it. Nothing unusual: two bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen with a table, a small living room that had a couch and fire place. Nothing unusual for a commoner, but quite the opposite for a Malfoy and a Zabini.

Blessed routine had quickly been settled after the purchase. Breakfast about nine, and they alternated who would cook the meal on different days of the week. Lunch at around two, but this was something they could do on their own, whether it was sitting alone in a café or eating in front of the refrigerator. Dinner near eight, and they went out or stayed in together depending on the other's mood. Flat cleaning had an unwritten schedule that the two followed religiously, grocery shopping was sporadic but the icebox was never completely empty. Life went on for Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, as long as they kept to the routine.

Alas, Draco was finally having trouble keeping up with this shared outlook. It had been a rare occurrence at first, but in the last few months he missed dinner near eight more often or rushed it to leave off to "out": the staunch location that Blaise was given in explanation for why Draco was never home until the early hours of morning. And now it was until past the morning as well, Draco flooing in at lunch around two with no justification for his absence, Blaise's poached eggs and ham slices waiting for him on the table, cold.

Blaise was wary of Draco, who was so dissimilar from his persona of schooldays now, after The War, to argue about him throwing off the routine. Though it was only a matter of time before the routine was the one who brought the topic up between the young men.

And that was this morning, when Blaise had awoken early with a parched mouth, registering the hour being not nearly dawn as he stumbled to the kitchen for a glass of water. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve he almost yelped as he heard a deafening rush from the fireplace and turned to see Draco step out, dusting floo powder from his hands, blonde hair shading his face as he hunched over near the mantelpiece. Blaise headed towards him, not masking his footsteps, but it was obvious Draco had not noticed his approach until one creak on the wooden floor under Blaise's feet sent the other man's head shooting upwards, his wand at the ready before Blaise could take another step.

Blaise put both hands up. "Is that your wand, or are you just pleased to see me?" He joked, though the grin did not reach his eyes.

Draco glared at him before exhaling a long breath of air, reaching his palm up and rubbing his eyes, suddenly looking for all the world like he would fall forward into sleep right then and there. The young man was still attractive as in his younger days, but he was zombie-like in presence: his pale face looked ghoulish from dark shadows beneath his eyes, his cheeks thinner from missing many meals. Blaise tried to be casual, but the worried note in his voice rung through the room as he asked yet again, "So. Where the bloody hell have you been this time, Draco?"

The young Malfoy stared at him stupidly, registering the question two long minutes later. "Out."

Blaise shook his head. "And where is 'out?' What is 'out?' _Who_ is 'out'?"

Draco looked befuddled, and then annoyed, and then just plain tired once more. "Get off it Blaise, I was just out for a walk."

"Since before eight last night? You must be the best bloody fucking walker in all of England to hike for ten hours straight and make it back home in time for breakfast. Set a world record, I bet."

"Oh sod off, Blaise, can't we just go to bed? We'll talk on it tomorrow, promise."

"It's tomorrow, mate."

Draco's bloodshot eyes finally began to focus, and they bore into Blaise's own. "Gods, I was at the hospital, alright? I was at bloody St. Mungo's for the whole fucking night so can you get the fuck off it and let me go to sleep?"

Blaise was hushed for a moment, but when he spoke again his tone was softer. "Are you hurt, sick?"

"No."

A dense silence fell over the small space for a second time.

"Were you seeing… him… again, then? And here I had thought Snape had stopped pressuring you to do that months ago –"

Draco only shrugged.

Back in his own room, Draco shut and locked the door behind him, savoring the resonant click. He headed over to his dresser and rummaged through it wildly, socks and undergarments arcing in the air before spilling to the floor, until he finally gave in to the fact that he had run out of his last pack of cigarettes.

Breathing through his nose in displeasure he headed over to his window and dragged it open, the early morning air wafting into his face, taking away some of the sting of nicotine yearning. He could always ask Blaise for some of his "herbal" cigarettes, but he was quite sick of his flatmate and had no desire to beseech himself now, after just leaving his old Slytherin friend standing alone in the front room with no more to say. That and he craved just a normal, proper fag, not Blaise's that made his vision hazy and words thick. From his window he peered into the world outside, all things cloaked in the deep periwinkle glow of the early morning sky, the last white speckling of stars vanishing as a fog slothfully stole their place.

He would have to be more careful he decided, more attentive to the life around him besides the time spent in that hospital room alongside the silent figure who haunted his thoughts day and night. Blaise's suspicion was dangerous to them both, and he was agonizingly aware that the last thing he and The Boy Who Slept needed in their worlds was more at risk. Reminiscing over The Boy in question, Draco began to sense his own need for rest and fell upon his bed fully clothed, mind already in slumber.

**Snape had his** hands steepled in front of him as he pondered Luna's last question.

"The fact that Hermione was involved in my trialing would be my only reason to still hold contempt for Mr. Weasley, and since time has passed and he has so apparently left our world, I find my need to spend time resenting his involvement less pressing than ever. Do not mistake that I ever liked the boy; his ability to so effortlessly pity himself and covet the better traits in others instead of refining the good in his own irked me to no end. It is just more simple for me now to disregard him from that part of my life."

Luna's fair eyebrows raised.

"Those words are more kind than I expected from you when talking about the sole individual who publicly accused you of raping the woman you love," she said in wonder.

"Ronald Weasley's claims were obviously preposterous which is why that useless part of my trial was over within minutes. If he expected Hermione to take the stand and lie against me to pleasure some long held schoolboy fantasy of his then I'd question his mental state more than before," Snape crossed his arms and leaned back, daring her to challenge such logic.

"You just off-rhymed, Professor. 'More' and 'before'." She had decided early on in life that being random was a surefire way to diffuse heaviness of the air.

He glared at her. "Seem that it would, Miss. Lovegood." And then sullenly, "That was on purpose."

Luna bit back a smile.

"**Do that top** button up at once, you scruff!" Screeched the critical mirror at its punter, currently coaxing his red hair into a style it already was.

Ron Weasley sighed audibly. "It's intentional. I'm going for that smart-casual look." Inwardly smirking at the fact that he had used the term "smart-casual" and not felt like a git, he stood back and appraised himself. A brash smile spread across his face; he knew he looked good.

Ron had not always been vain. Indeed, as a lanky, awkward teenager he had positively loathed his outer appearance. Days were spent hiding disappointment in the fact that his flirting only ever yielded looks of disgust from the pretty girls, whilst nights were spent shedding heated tears that refused to stop falling no matter how much he swore at them. But time had smiled upon him and now, years later; he had grown well into his features. It was a well-deserved blessing and, moreover, a relief for Ron.

Since The War, Ron had been regarded as a true hero. His part in defeating the Death Eaters and protecting Harry had been heavily documented, and due to the fact that Harry was still comatose, Ron had been able to revel in the glorification that was normally reserved for his bespeckled best friend. He truly was the people's favourite now, albeit a temporary replacement. And the girls loved him.

Who would not want to be seen wrapped in the arms of a wizarding hero? Who would not want to appear on the front of the Daily Prophet locked in a suitably suggestive embrace with a fully-fledged stud of the magical kind? Who would not want to draw jealous glares from their peers as they strolled down Diagon Alley hand-in-hand with the Boy-Who-Helped-Out-The-Boy-Who-Lived? There were few who fit in those slots, a sure fact.

Yet…

Hermione Granger was one.

"Hermione…" Ron whispered for name, closing his eyes for a few seconds before opening them again to furtively check that nobody near was ear wigging. He was not quite sure when he had fallen in love with her, most likely somewhere between the troll and The War, and he imagined scenarios involving her, sex, and sometimes a family, though always afterwards he scowled at his own childish obsession.

Since The War and _his_ trials they had steadily seen less and less of each other. Well, not exactly since The War. Since he had seen them. Since he had witnessed the debauched rape (for that was definitely what it was, no matter what anyone else said) of his best friend and later crush. He had been an uninvited witness to a haunting crime that smashed his reality of ever completing his full dream of happiness.

Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.

The nauseating recollection made him wince, still. Hermione's doe eyes, wider than he had ever seen them before, were glittering with many tears unshed, at least according to Ron, who had no idea why else her eyes would glisten during an act so vile to her being. She had been moaning, but Ron had decided it was in pain. She ferociously dragged her fingernails over every bit of Snape's skin she could reach, no doubt in self-defense.

And him.

His beastly furor with her made Ron still get physically sick when recalled in nightmares during the early hours of morning. His skeletal hand closing around Hermione's up stretched throat as he drove into her with an animalistic quality. Swearing foully (not that Ron could hear his words, but he made his assumptions) and his expression gruff as he slammed against her perfect body with reckless abandon. The whole scene had been inhuman, so horribly depraved.

Ron had tried to get into the room, to save her, to at least attempt to ward Snape off her salacious figure. But the place was heavily warded, and he simply was not powerful enough to break through. So he told the Ministry what he had seen.

Ron's fists clenched painfully as he remembered the trial. The day that Hermione went before wizardkind and told them that it was not rape, that she had wanted it, wanted Snape. She had stood with head held high, her eyes ablaze with a fierce intensity only she could muster so well and told the Wizengamot that she had actively encouraged it. That she, in fact, had seduced Severus Snape.

He had thought he had gone mad when he heard her say those words. Perhaps his mind really was blistered from war and had made him hear her incorrectly. He assured himself it could not possibly be the truth, that Hermione was protecting him. But why? Did she think Snape did not deserve Azkaban because of the part he had played in saving Harry's life? That must surely be the reason. Hermione was always so moral and forgiving: completely selfless. It seemed exactly the sort of thing she would do.

Since that time Ron and Hermione had not spoken, hardly seeing each other but for in passing. On his part, his philandering lifestyle did not allow for much time to chase old friends. He suspected that on her part, she was avoiding him because she knew he would be angry with her for her lies.

But Ron had decided enough was enough. He loved Hermione, had for longer than he cared to remember and he wanted her to know. He was sure that once they could have a talk together he would get the truth out of her about Snape's monstrosity, and then he would be able to find the courage to tell her how he felt. He could almost sense that she loved him too, and was too afraid to act upon her feelings. There had always been that so obvious connection between them.

With a final sweeping glance at himself, Ron grinned at his own reflection and strolled downstairs.

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley was beaming, bustling about the kitchen like an overgrown bee. "You look lovely dear," she said, immediately moving to do up Ron's top button and sweep imaginary dirt from his face.

"Mum!" scowled Ron, firmly undoing the button again and wrenching himself out of his mother's deceptively strong grasp, "Leave me alone, I'm off to see Hermione."

"Oh," she paused uncertainly. "That's wonderful to hear, goodness knows she needs a friend around after all that," her lip curled in distaste over her next words, "Snape business."

"Perhaps even more than a friend!" She said pointedly, a knowing smile alighting her features as Ron moved swiftly towards the door.

He headed out into the heavy summer air, so like the day of the final battle less than a year ago, thick with the heady, sweet scent of wildflowers and grass, and with a loud pop, he was gone.

He apparated behind a concealing hedge around the corner from Hermione's small home. The area was quite out of the way, the nearest town not visible for a good few miles and Ron enjoyed the tranquility that seemed to envelop him as he sauntered down the paved path. He was almost at the corner when he heard a telltale crack from a short distance away and stopped dead in his tracks.

"Please don't have gone out, Hermione," he sighed grumpily to himself, setting off towards the house again, now with more haste.

As he approached the quaint little house (Ron thought it suited her well) he could not help but be astonished at the sheer magnitude of the magic that seemed to radiate from the place. He wondered what she could be doing in there to cause it, something brilliant most likely, judging by her own ability as a bravura witch.

He stopped in front of the door and steadied himself, flattened his hair one last time and took a deep breath, reached for the door and –

"Gahck!" A startled Ron yelped as the door swung open before he even had a chance to touch it. A familiar brown-eyed girl stood before him. He watched as her expression went from shock, to the beginnings of a smile, before it molded into resentment and finally resignation.

"Ron." She said, rather flatly despite her obvious attempt to inject a little enthusiasm into it. "What an…um…surprise."

Ron disregarded her hesitancy and quickly pulled her into a tight embrace, inhaling the scent of her freshly-washed hair. "Hermione… I've missed you," he said with meaning, not noticing how she broke the contact with hurry.

"Oh Ron," she smiled, although he could trace a bitter note in it. "I've… well I've missed you too." Ron beamed at her. "I was actually on my way out, but I suppose you want to come in for a minute?"

"Well, yeah," said Ron as he cleared his throat, "I think we need to talk, get a few things cleared up, there are some things I… some things I've wanted… I need to say."

Hermione visibly slumped as she turned to lead him into the sitting room. Ron's normal insensitivity seemed to have retired as he registered a consideration he had not even known he held: he felt for her at the moment. She knew the topic that had been pending discussion for so long now, bleeding hell, she had probably been waiting for it, perched by a window.

Ron felt slightly better at the fact that Hermione seemed rather despondent to his arrival - this talk would be painful for her, dragging up the raw, tormenting memories of what had happened. What that utter bastard had done to her. He fought to regain composure as a vehement rush of fury coursed through him, stealing his breath away for a short minute.

He sat down priggishly upon one of the comfy, Bordeaux-colored armchairs that took up the most space in the petite room. Hermione sat across from him, her legs crossed tightly and her hand clasped together. She smiled faintly and seemed to take a rather large breath.

"Hasn't the weather been lovely," she began awkwardly. "Absolutely lovely, I've rather enjoyed taking lots of walks out here, the wildlife is so pretty, for being uncultivated. Of course, at the middle of the day it's a bit too hot for my liking, but I'd rather it be too warm than too cold…"

"Hermione…" interjected Ron quietly.

"But generally it's been lovely, I've been growing lots of magical plants in the yard. I have a few flutterby bushes out there, some fluxweed, and this heat has caused my gillyweed to bloom wonderfully! I mean, after all that trouble Harry had in the Triwizard Tournament, I never wanted to be caught short again. It's a difficult plant to grow, but very rewarding." She babbled at a breathtaking pace.

"Hermione," said Ron, a little more forcefully this time.

"Oh yes," she continued, fidgeting, her hands twisting at a chestnut curl. "I'm growing mandrakes too, you should see them! I can't wait to begin brewing the Mandrake Restorative Draught, it is rather strenuous to do but at least Severus thinks I'll be able –" she stopped short, her eyes big as her mind caught up with the err. She bit her lip and looked down at her hands that had gone from fidgeting to outright trembles.

"It's alright, Hermione," Ron soothed, his voice low in a protective tone learnt from his mother, "You don't need to be afraid of him anymore and I won't let him hurt you ever again. I can protect you." He reached his hand out towards her but she suddenly snapped her head back and looked him in the face with a burning stare as she slapped his proffered hand away.

"He didn't hurt me Ron, ever," she growled, "When will you get it? I don't need your protection! You're confused. I never needed you to look after me and save me from him - I love him." Her voice had raised and her cheeks were burning in anger.

Ron gaped at her for a few moments, unable to say a word.

"I am sick to death of people and their own contorted impressions that he made me lie, or that I was under the Imperius in court or whatever the rumors are because it simply is not true! And it's all your fault, really, Ron. I want Severus, we are in a relationship and I am happy, happier than I've been in a long time. Please, at least acknowledge this, for my sake if not yours."

"You can't possibly love that slimy git, Hermione, you - you're lying to yourself!" Spluttered Ron, his blue eyes fully disbelieving.

"And why not? Not like you were ever as witty and intuitive, as sensitive and sexy. Got over yourself, Ron." Her tone had become ice cold.

"Sexy?" Getting to his feet he tried to regain a sense of control over the situation, but in a standing position his temper seemed to heighten as well. "Don't be so fucking ridiculous Hermione, he's about as sexy as a toad covered in stink sap!"

"Oh yes, Ron, sorry, I forgot. You're the sexy one aren't you! You, using the fact that you're Harry's best friend to get women to sleep with you! Because I can assure you Ron, you'd find it terribly fucking difficult otherwise!" Hermione was on her feet too, her face contorted and glowing with rage.

That one had hurt, but he tried not to show it. "But I saw you Hermione, he was raping you!"

"No, Ron, he was not. I wanted it. I. Enjoyed. Every. Second. Of. It." She slowly emphasized her words, reveling as the wretched boy in front of her winced with each punctuated syllable.

"But he was nearly choking you! You had tears in your eyes… he was, he was, p-pounding you like a madman!"

"_Because that's the way I like it_! Tender loving is good for a while but there are those times, many times, when I like playing the victim, I relish the danger, I like knowing that there can be pleasure found in pain." Completely in control now, she relished each word and Ron's ashen reaction.

Ron somehow found his voice again. "You do know that's illegal in 87 countries!" He roared, his ears so red that Hermione was momentarily entertained with the thought that they would set afire.

"Piffle, Ron." She said, her tone in control once more. "Stop talking like your mother, in fact, just stop talking at all."

She marched towards the door and wrenched it open. "Go on, get out. This conversation, much like us, Ron, is over. I have nothing more to say to you. Ever."

"Hermione, please," Ron started, his voice pleading as he changed tactic. "He will hurt you, you know he will. Maybe not for a while but one day. But I won't. Hermione, I… I love you. I've always loved you. Come with me. We can build a life together and it will be fantastic, and I'll make it perfect for you 'Mione, I promise. I'll do anything, anything you want, I'll do it. Please!" The loud rushing in his ears almost deafened him to her next words. Almost.

She had cringed while he spoke, but her features were soon harsh again, unforgiving.

"Right now Ron, I just want you to disappear. I don't love you and I never will. You're so incredibly selfish, and more to the point you're an immature prat not worthy of this frustration. Severus Snape is a real man, Ronald, and he treats me like a real woman. Not like a prize, not like a title, not for a thirty-second shag that is about as meaningful as love bottled in a potion sold off the common street vendor. He doesn't need to have a button undone to show me who he really is, and I love him more than I have ever, and will, love someone in my life."

His heart wrenched at the hardness in her eyes. The shame of their first, last, and very short sexual encounter, years ago, that she had just so vindictively ridiculed made heat prickle behind his gaze and he blinked furiously to stem it off.

"Hermione…" he croaked, now pitiful, "Don't do this to yourself, to me…"

"That's exactly the problem, Ron. After all I've said you still think this is about you," her voice cracked, yet she continued, "Just go, and I mean it with utmost sincerity when I say I never want to see you again." Her eyes were watering but the tone remained final.

Ron stood before the door for long moments after it had slammed shut in his face with a resounding snap. He turned and ran, as far away as he could get, trying not to tumble over the earth as his vision became ever more blurred.

**The picture frame** on the night stand was now only home to one occupant and she did not seem disturbed that her friend had mysteriously disappeared from her side, leaving a blank stretch of canvas next to her. She had not changed at all, at least from the photograph. Her bright brown eyes did not look worried; instead, they might have carried a slight hint of restlessness in them, but certainly no feelings of discontent. Her bushy hair was at its usual, out of control, but not as tremendously frizzy as it would be if she were feeling extreme anxiety. Presently, she was trying to mend a tear in her skirt because –

BANG!

The rumbling crash of the front door slamming broke the silence of the hushed house. Seconds later, a streak of red flashed into the empty bedroom. The trembling figure snatched the single picture frame resting on the nightstand and savagely hurled it at the wall opposite him. The glass of the frame shattered with a sickening sound that echoed in the same rhythm as his ragged breathing. The only other noise that had resulted was the penetrating scream from the photograph, now silent in a rumpled heap within the glass scattered on the floor.

Without stopping to clean up the mess that he had just made, the young man began to haphazardly chuck things into a battered suitcase. It was not much. Some clothes, a few orange items with wizards on broomsticks, and a thin sack of money. After having packed everything that he desired, he hastily grabbed the cage atop of the wardrobe and stormed out of the room. His voice laced with strangled emotion as he made a final parting statement in the only home he'd known since birth.

"Come on, Pig. We're leaving now... we're leaving now for good."

As he sat in the airport terminal (the Muggle way of transport had seemed an obvious means of disappearing off the face of the Earth because the Ministry would not be able to track his location until he landed) ruminating about the past couple hours, mere hours that seemed centuries, the horrid events kept flashing in front of his eyes like a never ending nightmare. It was her with another man, at first. How could she do this to him when they had been friends, maybe even more than friends, once or twice, for so long?

He kept imagining what would have been, what could have been, if Snape had not come into the picture - the picture now crumpled at his feet. Hermione and Snape. Snape and Hermione. It split his insides, his very soul, to even consider the two together. Why did things have to end this way… be this way?

His life was swiftly becoming like a hexed Marauder's Map, each path taken were footsteps to nowhere and he was not sure he could muster the mental energy to start in a right direction. He did not know what would happen next or what he was going to do. All he really wanted, needed, was to get out of this bloody place now, out of the country, out of the memory of what had been before. Yes, distance was his only hope for sanity now.

A booming voice, which seemed very far away to him as he sat lost in his thoughts, could be heard calling out, "British Airways Flight 187 to New York City now boarding. I repeat. British Airways Flight 187 to New York City now boarding."

As Ron Weasley stared unblinkingly at the ticket in his hand, a single teardrop fell onto it, smearing the flight number and spreading in tiny veins over the small surface.

"Goodbye Hermione," he whispered and got up to board the plane, for once in his life giving her what she wanted.

**Snape had tired** of speaking of himself and Weasley but it had been a turn of poor judgment when he had allowed Miss. Lovegood to continue rambling on about nothing, as she tended to do when he became silent. Even though she had been quite professional up until then, Snape could not exactly say he was surprised in the least when after stammering over a few questions that he would not respond to, she reverted back to her old ways: blabbering about nothing.

She had been talking breathlessly for about ten minutes straight, only once pausing to take swigs of Snape's own Firewhiskey, as if his lips had not been there moments earlier. The sobering affect it had left on Snape was immediate and effective, and he warily watched Miss. Lovegood as her eyes danced in time to her own increasingly slurred speech. Snape was tempted to just leave, but his mind traveled back to Hermione and his promise to her, so he blinked, let a sigh escape from his lips, but remained seated.

"Ah, Professor Snape," Luna said nodding sympathetically, acknowledging the sigh. Snape flashed a wry look in her direction.

"I know what's on your mind," Luna continued, pausing dramatically. "But not to worry. Giant Squids won't catch you here."

Snape stared.

Luna took a loud slurp of the half empty bottle of Firewhiskey, her eyes turning glassy as a drop of saliva slowly crept from her mouth, and gestured to the window with her head.

"Oh, oh! Professor Snape, look! There's a Niffler!"

Snape, patience wearing thin, followed her gaze. Not that much could be seen through the brown grime and dust that shielded the window from the outer world, but it was also quite apparent that there was no Niffler. The girl was getting rather tipsy on his hands, and Snape shifted uncomfortably.

Luna nodded her head vehemently.

"Professor Snape, are you telling me you don't know the secret about Nifflers? Well for one," her voice dropped to a mock whisper, and she released a high giggle before continuing, "Draco Malfoy is a Niffler at night. My father stalked his family's mansion a month ago."

Luna hiccupped loudly and Snape dug the dirt out of his fingernails, "Really Miss. Lovegood."

"Really! It's an absolute fact and you're the third to know."

Snape knew what Luna did not though, that Draco Malfoy had not seen the inside of Malfoy Manor for years. Draco had become much more secretive and brooding in his change to a modest man - few were aware of his current home in a quite unparticular flat. Shared with Blaise Zabini if Snape could recall.

Luna went on to say something about her mum, her mum's teeth, and the Niffler, with Snape nodding politely every few minutes, mentally strangling Hermione for dragging him into this. Clenching his teeth to restrain himself from an unpleasant outburst, he wondered if the afternoon would ever come to a close. Yet he knew it would not be before long, so promptly and without words, he cast a sobering spell over the girl and watched as she blinked and registered her surroundings without the fog that a sip too many of Firewhiskey can render.

"Did I just –"

He nodded solemnly.

"Oh dear Gods… sorry Professor Snape," Luna said, a bit bashfully, as she pushed the Firewhiskey bottle towards Snape and let him seat it off the table, on the floor and clear of his own chair.

"But let's get on," she continued, this new avowal in a much stronger voice.

**Dust danced** along the light rays, slicing through the tilted blinds of the window and onto the still form that was once known as "The Boy Who Lived."

The dancing dust mites made the unmoving figure in the hospital cot seem more still. Healers went about their morning routine, barely noticing the ginger-haired girl, head hung low, who sat devotedly by the boy's side nearly each morning for the last two years. Her eyes were dry - she had wept all that she could; she had no more tears to shed. She raised her head and gazed at Harry's still form, barely noticing the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She leant over and swept a stray lock of hair away from Harry's forehead, letting her thumb brush over the unblemished skin that was once occupied by a telltale mark of his past.

A torn expression rendering her face, she pulled her hand away and sighed. Fed up with waiting, Ginny fell back into the chair and began to talk to him.

"Harry," she started. She paused for a moment, as if waiting for a response. "Harry, I don't know if you can hear me, but you need to wake up." Her voice grew anxious. "You can't just stay in this bed forever, alright?"

Harry remained silent and Ginny let the thought cross her mind once more that it was possible that he might never wake up. _Maybe he just doesn't want to…_

"Harry, did you really break up with me just to protect me from Voldemort? Or did you… Harry, were you scared for a different reason?" She asked, her voice softening. "Or did you just change your mind?"

Ginny knew she was being pitiful but she could not hold her feelings back any longer.

"Harry, even if you were telling the truth…" Her lips started to tremble and she took a quiet breath before continuing, "I just don't know if I can wait around with you frozen like this forever, and I know you didn't ask for all this but neither did I, and it's just so unfair –"

Her breath caught in her throat and she let out a dry sob, bringing her hands to her face. She knew it was not Harry's fault. She was the one who refused to let go. A lot of boys had continued to vie for Ginny's affection, but she made it clear to them that she was still for Harry's, who slept on, unaware of her devotion.

She lifted her hands from her face and reached for Harry's, his features unresponsive and still under her touch. She smiled slightly, but her eyes remained sad as she whispered, almost apologetically, "I'll wait for you Harry."

She released his hand in defeat, glancing at the window at his side. Dust still played in the light beams, clouding warm rays. She sat there for some time, simply staring at the particles, waiting.

**The night** **was** quiet with tiny white diamonds embedded into the sky. The winds whispered in gentle wisps allowing emptiness to flow about in endless swirls. This slight breeze barely ruffled the light cream curtains that framed the windows of St Mungo's, the windows of the small room where Harry rest.

The moon was full and clearly visible through the window when the door opened, and a figure made its nightly visit to the side of Harry's bed - a boy whose glistening fair hair mirrored the moon's own ethereal glow. Hoary blue eyes watched Harry's motionless form in silence, a soundless mourning what could have been.

After what might have been an hour or more, the visitor broke out of his meditative trance and brought his hand to Harry's forehead, much in the same fashion as Ginny had hours earlier. He too unconsciously ran his fingers over where Harry's scar once lay. A burdening silence echoed in the night air as he pulled his hand away, feeling barren inside.

A thoughtful look fell over his face when he turned away, silently closing the door as he left. He looked back once, eyes radiating compassion, perhaps to leave one mark of warmth to the motionless youth in bed.

"**The War."**

"Mmm."

"Well?"

"Well."

"Well, what was it like?"

"Were you not present also, Miss. Lovegood?"

"Yes, but as we've gone over, this is not about me, it's about you. When I ask what it was like, I mean from your eyes and body and mind, clearly not my own," she said, teeth gritted.

He said nothing.

"Perhaps we should steer the discussion to you as a child or better, a teenager, because this habit of reversing the topic to myself indicates that you are not comfortable with accepting the details of your life said aloud from your own mouth. Did your mother and father stifle your words at the dinner table and did teachers not always become engrossed in your flawlessly correct answer to a question? Well?" Her clipped tone and attitude did naught to change the closed expression on Snape's face, but he did relent:

"Well, I believe we were discussing The War, Miss. Lovegood."

"Right we are Professor, The War."

Luna was still not quite sure how they went from having an analytical dialogue over Ron Weasley's mental state to her getting completely pissed on his Firewhiskey, but she was determined to redeem herself as they embarked upon a crucial topic of discussion.

The War had begun as a random brawl in the heart of wizarding London, Diagon Alley, which had spurred into a raging battle throughout the streets that became an endless day of blood and death, until Voldemort and his Death Eaters fell. And so did Harry Potter.

"Has a war ever been so unplanned?"

"Did you not pay attention during your History of Magic lessons?"

Luna ignored this, her face stern and she waited.

Snape ran a hand over his eyes and let it trail down the length of his face, incredulous that just four years ago it had been his right to look at this former student in such a way. There was no point in avoiding the inevitable.

"It was unplanned yes, but certainly should not have been as unexpected as it was. Harry Potter's seventeenth birthday had passed days before, Death Eater attacks on Muggles and wizarding people were more rampant than ever, it had only really been a matter of time. Voldemort was ready on that day, and the uprising he had heard wind of from Diagon Alley gave him full leave to summon us all and bring us into the fight, for he knew from there Harry Potter would arrive and the end could at last come about. We flew headfirst into battle, each hardly knowing who was on which side. Students, adults, the elderly alike - fighting for a cause of which the particular date had none."

"You call the survival of our people a non-cause?"

Snape sneered. "Miss. Lovegood, perhaps if you thought over my words before reciting to me the first garbled translation that alights in your inapt mind I would not have to restate myself. The particular date for out battle, August the eighth of 1998, had no significance over the cause in which we fought. It is only in that way was the battle unplanned. In our case it was purely impossible to simultaneously prevent and prepare for war. The random hour at which it struck left neither side with the ability to call on the creatures each had boasted when devising battle tactics: no dementor, nor giant, nor werewolf - save Fenrir Greyback and Remus Lupin - prowled the streets. It was purely wizard on wizard, something which in essence made it all much more damaging, in mentality at least."

Luna took his crack at her in stride and had sat listening intently. "Who won The War, Professor Snape?"

He just looked at her, and after a long moment pulled up the sleeve from his robes to reveal a left forearm. Luna's sharp intake of breath reverberated throughout her body and she felt a bout of Firewhiskey threatening to climb up her throat. She had seen firsthand the Death Eaters fall to ground and writhe in agony, clutching at their left arms as the limb all but dismembered itself, crumbling into black ash up to where their Dark Mark's rest.

To witness the damage to Snape was a different experience: for she knew this man, knew somehow that he did not deserve it. He was better for the wear, still having a full arm, but the spot where Voldemort's mark had evidently been was a twisted crater of flesh removed to reveal an area of graying skin dried and mottled over what look to be the outline of a bone.

"Considering members of The Order of the Phoenix went rather unaffected by Voldemort's fall, at least in this aspect," he gestured to the sordid abrasion, "I'd deduce that it was they who walked off victorious."

"Well –" she broke off, "well, were you not apart of the winning side?"

He was fixing the robe sleeve back over his arm. "Just enough."

**August the 8th, 1998**

Rufus Scrimgeour died first, and chaos erupted. From within The Leaky Cauldron customers cried out and exploded from the bar even before his limp body fell dead to the ground, and raucous took up in the streets as confused civilians scrambled about dodging the hexes that seemed to have no origin.

It was early August, and a heated, smoggy atmosphere began to lack more light as the minutes progressed, murky storm clouds rolling over the dusty blue of the sky and shadowing the frenzied region: a terrorized Diagon Alley. Children were dragged screaming from the streets, their bawling mothers risking being splinched to get as far away from the battleground as possible, apparating with the toddlers clasped tightly to their chests as they prayed for Merlin to keep their bodies in one piece. Shop windows shattered, from curses plunging into them or curses propelling grown men into them, the unfortunate latter sinking to sidewalk with thick trails of blood crisscrossing over their faces, wands limp in grip. More and more showed up, for word of war always quickly spreads, and the streets became so thickly mobbed that spells could hardly charge to their required destination without crashing into any wizard that took a step at precisely the wrong moment. The Death Eaters were soon entwined in the throng, maniacal laughter decorating the cries of wounded and moans of the dying as they leaped about killing with merriment, flashes of green and red circulating throughout the mad crowd of warring peoples.

Further down, Luna Lovegood, bleeding slightly from the back of her blonde head from being knocked about in the original riot leaving the Cauldron, was grasping at the arms of a lifeless girl, no more than ten or eleven, finally getting a strong hold of her and pulling her to the safety of an inner alley that seemed devoid of the surrounding death. She checked the girl's pulse, her own throbbing madly, before whispering a healing spell that she had once heard Madam Pomfrey administer to Romilda Vane when the silly girl had gotten herself into a tizzy and outright fainted. The one Luna was attending stirred, her eyes not opening, but her breath coming in shrill little gasps that assured Luna she was most certainly still alive. Without any more hesitation Luna ran back out into the heat of war.

Even beyond that, Neville Longbottom was panting as he ran, his heart pounding so wildly he thought at any moment it would find itself overworked and cease to pump at all. He heard steady footsteps crunching from behind and turned to see him still on his trail, long white-blonde hair whipping in the hot wind. Why Lucius Malfoy was cornering him, he could not be sure, but every hex he had already aimed at the man had been so easily deflected Neville had just given up and run, dodging the whizzing beams of burning red light that skimmed his body as he jerked about the streets uncontrollably, trying to avoid being an easy mark.

And then, "Incarcerous."

He had expected to fall and then see blinding green light as Lucius would undoubtedly kill him, the prey, but instead Neville remained standing, hunched in an upright fetal position as he felt no new sensation over his body. Realizing he was still standing, still alive, he whipped around to see Severus Snape kneeling before Lucius' unconscious form, the man gripped in thick cutting vines that encompassed the whole length of his body. Snape looked to Neville with no expression before rising to his feet and running swiftly in a different direction of battle, passing the boy with not another glance.

Neville stepped cautiously to Lucius' body, unaware of the curses thrashing themselves through the air around him as he focused only on the fallen Malfoy. With no thought he bent and used a foot to nudge the man onto his side, seeing a single trickle of blood escape his temple.

"A nasty little ingrate such as yourself dare touch Lucius Malfoy with a foot? Unheard of." The voice was a cracked hiss breathed right into his ear, and Neville knew it was she without having to turn around. His body stiffened, the hairs of his neck standing to one end, and all other cries of battle were zoned away from his conscious as he focused on her ragged breathing alone.

It was two singular motions that propelled the other and acted within all of a second. He heard the word "Avada" curl from her lips in the same instant he had already proceeded to hurl himself around the still form of Lucius Malfoy. Landing with a thud to the ground he felt a profusion of energy somewhere to the immediate left of him and then complete stillness once more.

Neville lay on the ground for long moments thinking himself deceased, before realizing he was still thinking. He dragged himself to his knees and trying to decipher what had just happened.

Lucius Malfoy was dead. His eyes were open but unblinking, silvery-steeled eyes peering into the sky with no recognition, slightly opened mouth allowing no breath in or out.

He looked over and there she was, on her knees like himself, her black hair mussed around her face as she too did not blink, looking at Lucius with a wide-eyed terror that drained the blood from her face and caused a vein near her mouth to convulse. Then she looked at Neville, rising to his feet. Back to Lucius. And then to Neville.

Her scream of anguish filled the air, a sharp cry that echoed into his ears and played over and over as he neared her, and finally stood before her, her hell raising screech of dismay revolving from right lobe to left.

She was at her knees before him, wand dropped forgotten to her side, large tear droplets falling down her face and entwining with the hair and mucus stuck to her mouth. She raised her head and looked at him. Below the swimming water in her eyes there was pure loathing.

"Look," she howled. "LOOK!" He remained staring down at her. "Look what you made me do you bastard, look!"

Something within Neville Longbottom snapped. He felt a heat rising in his temples, a painful awakening to someplace dark in the back of his mind.

"My mum didn't birth a bastard, Bellatrix," he barely mustered, his wand gripped sorely against his palm.

She did not seem to hear him as she looked beyond his body to Lucius' own, as if willing it to resurrect itself under her unnerving stare. Neville was not aware that he had reached and gripped a hand in her hair, but she was looking at him again as he pulled her head back with the captured strands in a way he knew must be excruciating, though she made no noise of protest.

An eternity passed as brown stared into jade.

She blinked at last, and her gaze flickered upon Lucius again before rising back to Neville, who still grasped her hair tightly, her neck wrenched all the way back.

"Cissy will never forgive me, I hope you know," she whispered, before shutting her eyes tightly and allowing more tears to seep out.

He let go of her hair and stepped back an inch, and her whole body frame fell forward with him, her face smashing into the calves of his legs.

Neville had never spoke two words more soundly in his life as he leant his wand into Bellatrix Lestrange's scalp and killed her.

Afar the sea of dead bodies that now graced the ground, Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort stood face to face, wands outstretched.

The seventeen-year-old boy was exhausted. He and the Dark Lord had sparred for what seemed like hours, though he knew it was probably just mere minutes as Voldemort deflected each spell Harry threw at him (unvoiced, he had learned) away easily. He was playing with him, Harry realized. For Voldemort, this was a game. The gaunt serpent-man was laughing shrilly at what he had to witness before him: a child attempting to defeat him and the death of the innocent aplenty.

Harry was about to launch another curse but Voldemort opened the hole of his mouth and the words that followed stopped Harry in tracks.

"Hear this boy, a tale of how a young runt of a wizard called Harry Potter thought he could outwit the greatest Dark wizard of all time by destroying pieces of his soul one by one. He even killed the Dark Lord's snake, unaware that little Nagini served as a ploy to fool The One Who Got Lucky into believing he had a chance. And then on the day of battle, as it dawns on him he cannot win, he learns that the last one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes has been closer to him than he ever could have dreamed: that it lay upon his own forehead, a sheer scar," Voldemort lip curled in pleasure as he finished, noting the blood drawn from Harry's face.

"To kill me, young Harry Potter," Voldemort hissed, "You must rid this world of yourself."

Harry was frozen, his wand hand shaking slightly as a strange ringing filled his ears, and he swallowed slowly.

"Shall I help you, Harry?" Voldemort raised his wand and aimed at the boy, but not before Harry was aiming to himself, pure resolve etched on his face.

"I'd rather be dead than leave the wizarding world to your feet, Voldemort," Harry said, his emerald eyes gleaming.

Severus Snape had watched this scene unfold in slow motion, he himself feeling sluggish as he came upon the moment of great truth. He struck his wand at an angle in the way of them both, uttering the words that he knew would decide the future of his world, of everyone's world.

The beam of white light that exploded from his efforts blasted over the Dark Lord and Harry Potter as each had began to shout the spell most unforgivable of all. It lunged upon their beings with a ferocity that propelled each to the ground, slicing itself in the middle between their two bodies before each jolt of energy moved in the direction of Harry and fed into him. All had gone as supposed to.

Yet it had not.

Snape's eyes widened as he simultaneously saw parts of Voldemort's body begin to disintegrate, his legs shriveling into stumps and arms becoming black and dead, as Harry Potter did not rise from the spot where he lay. Death Eaters were twitching upon the streets, holding their own stump of left arms but Snape did not feel the burn in his as he tried to understand why The Boy Who Lived did not look as though he were living at all. He scrambled over to the young man and placed his hand to his forehead and then his chest. He felt nothing for seconds and thought all was lost when a slight thump gave a sensation to his palm and he realized Harry was still breathing.

Thinking perhaps the boy had fainted from strain Snape calmed a little but as he turned to the contorted form of Voldemort he could have sworn he saw movement from the blackening, crumpled thing he laid as now. Something was amiss; he was not sure what yet, but what mattered now was that Harry Potter was alive and Death Eaters lay defeated in the dirt. The people of the Light who had remained standing held faces that were grim, questioning their victory.

Snape looked up to the sky, cleared of the overcast blackness, now a deep blue that twinkled like an old friend's eye.


	2. Epilogue, Part Two

_**Our Epilogue, Part Two of Two**_

**Much had changed** since The War throughout the entire magical community, but gladly some things always remain the same. The Shrieking Shack continued to retain an eerie presence, which, years before, would have only added to the gloomy after-war atmosphere that shadowed over streets, but now stood in a new glory of sorts as an unlikely beacon for the future; a promise of hope, some sense of normality and a memory of an easier, more tolerant past.

This message was even more strong for two people in particular, who had found the Shrieking Shack to be one of the only places able to give them the one thing they both lacked and hoped for the most: acceptance. It was there, amongst a precautious postwar society situated in a secret world that was seeking return to its prior magnificence, that these lovers set up their home.

Remus Lupin, now considered a war hero amongst his peers, was pacing around the small front room of the Shrieking Shack, unconsciously running a finger over the surface of an old, antique drink cabinet.

"Home sweet home," he sighed to himself, glancing at his dust-covered finger in disgust. A pair of shapely arms wound themselves around the man's neck, their resident's head resting neatly at the top of his slim back.

"You complain too much, you know that?" Tonks teased, kissing the back of Lupin's neck softly.

For her, nothing could be more perfect. Not only had they won The War but she had also captured her man. It seemed all was in her favor and she knew this, appreciated this. Her feelings towards their new dwelling were a mixture of extreme giddiness and slight hesitation towards it, only because it had once been a symbol of pain and embarrassment to Lupin as a teenager.

They had been spending the last few weeks sprucing it up, beginning with the innards and they would hopefully be onto the outside by summertime. Before, it had been a complete shamble of tarnished antiques, shredded carpets (Lupin recently had a very "bad" night) and crumpling structures, paint and ceiling tiles peeling from their places. Now the house radiated warmth of a more hospitable environment.

It was not at all what they had pictured for themselves after their small, yet elegant, wedding. It had been a quick decision that at first registered as frightening and was now becoming, to them and Tonks especially, an adventure. Tonks knew how lucky she was but her insecurities still held strong and she feared losing Remus; she would do anything to have him feel happiness once again.

Returning the favor, Lupin embraced his wife, allowing his lips to brush into her shocking pink hair as he spoke soothing words of a better world and fresh chances.

Tonks smiled, her face bright. "I know," was all she said, her eyes sparkling into his.

Lupin waited no longer to allow his lips to meet hers, and then his hands were inside of her jumper, straying lower as their kiss deepened.

"Hey there!" Tonks exclaimed pulling away slightly, laughing, "Before we get into all that, you have a job to attend to, Mister Minister of Magic."

Lupin chuckled and shook his head at his wife, before picking up his battered, old briefcase and leaving the Shack with a flourishing pop.

Tonks rubbed her hands together smugly. "Now, to work!"

Lupin returned hours later looking gaunt and as troubled as ever. Glancing around he was puzzled to find himself in a gaily-lit dining room where a polished, oak table resided. Had he apparated to the wrong home? He saw a flash of neon pink flouncing around in the opposite room. Walking silently towards the familiar color, he was stunned to acknowledge that this was in fact the house he had left earlier in the morning.

"Tonks?" He tried, searching hopefully for her soft, delicate features to welcome him home.

"In here." A distracted voice replied from inside the bedroom.

Lupin walked hurriedly towards the doorway, now having too many questions to ask about the Shack's sudden beautification. Upon pushing open the freshly painted door he found himself in the most peculiar of situations: Tonks, hopping on one leg, balanced upon a tattered wooden box as she attempted to put up satin red curtains. As if in slow motion, the young pink-haired female fell and Lupin streaked towards her, catching her effortlessly in his outstretched arms.

"Well hullo there to you too, honey," Remus said sarcastically to the flushed Tonks in his hold. She scrambled out of his arms with a nervous laugh and "Thanks Love" before plopping on the bed and looking up to her husband expectantly. After several minutes of tongue-tied silence Tonks could not hold back any longer.

"So…" she prompted. Lupin looked startled at the sound of her voice.

"Erm, so what?" He asked, a little baffled.

"What do you think of the house, you idiot!" She laughed, hitting Remus half-heartedly with a pillow. Lupin's face broke into his natural grin, wolfish but sweet, one that Tonks would treasure always.

"It's beyond what I imagined darling, completely phenomenal," he answered in awe, remembering what he had felt upon first apparating into the revamped home. He worked his way over to his wife, meeting her with a slow, passionate kiss that dismissed all of Tonk's past misapprehensions.

"I love you so much, Mrs. Lupin," Remus whispered into his wife's ear.

"I love you too," Tonks returned, her voice gentle. "Want to know how much?" Her eyes gleamed wickedly.

Lupin began to kiss her hungrily once more, unfortunately realizing too late that he had his wires crossed as Tonks brought a hard pillow over his head. She giggled, "That's for leaving me to do all the cleaning up."

She scrambled over the bed sheets, trying to get away as her husband started after her, pillow raised threateningly. In the next several minutes the Shack was overtaken by a whirlwind of kissing, feathers, and pillow spankings, laughter bouncing off the fresh cream walls.

"Alright, alright. I give up," Lupin exclaimed, falling down on the soft mattress with his breaths coming in gasps.

Tonks cackled in victory. She leant forward to give Lupin a hug, loving how he no longer turned away from her affection. Unfortunately, he could not turn away from the opportunity to conquer, either.

"Rictumsempra!"

Tonks fell to the newly shined floor, clutching her sides in fits of giggles.

"Stop it! REMUS!" She begged amongst her bouts of laughter. Lupin surveyed his puppet teasingly, his eyes gleaming in a mischievous manner that he had not embraced so willingly since his years at Hogwarts surrounded by his best friends.

"What's the magic word?" he asked, finding this new game play most entertaining.

Tonks continued to roll around on the floor, squealing. "P-p-please…?" She managed to shriek.

"Promise to be a good girl if I stop?" Lupin asked, grinning to himself in pleasure.

"Yes. Gods, yes!" Tonks squirmed, trying hard to fight the spell. Slowly, it began to wear off and Lupin plucked her up off the floor in one clean motion. He kissed her instantly, wanting to thank her for loving him, for accepting him for what, or rather, who he was.

"Thank you Nymphadora, for everything. This, you, us… all means so much to me. I've never been more fulfilled in my life and it's you who has helped me get to this place, " he explained, gently stroking her pale stomach.

"Mmm," Tonks sighed happily, adoring the attention. "But Remus, don't call me Nymphadora," she purred.

As the two newlyweds took advantage of their lovely new home and especially their bed within their own room, Lupin noted the clear curve that was Tonk's usually taut stomach. Without words, he smiled to himself in hope for the months and years to come. A future he could make sure the demons of past would never interfere with, for he had something worth fighting for now. He had a family.

**Talk of The War** had left the two somber but most of all it had left Luna hungry.

"Do you by any chance know the time, Professor?" Luna asked, flicking some of the stray hair away from her face and letting her left hand massage her sore neck.

The question had been of the utmost simplicity, but the way in which she said it made Snape's skin tingle heatedly as his worn frame of mind processed it to be a whiney hint that she had grown somewhat tired of his presence.

"You sound fairly bored Miss. Lovegood, does my droning on about the concept of war disinterest you so?" She opened her mouth slightly but his next words silenced her again, "If it is so, perhaps then it is time for us to part and hopefully you've learned just enough about the wicked ex-Potions master to convince your daddy to add an extra sickle on your payroll." His face had become pinched and spots of color dotted his cheekbones in a signal of pending enmity.

Luna was taken aback; she thought Snape had changed towards her since their conversation had moved smoothly over difficult things that they had been able to address in an almost agreeable way. Speaking to her in the manner he just had told her that he was either having a circumstantial outburst (in which case she fretfully hoped for it to end soon) or was just as famished as she was, which is why she had brought up the time in the first place.

Her mouth twisted in confusion. "Er… no. I was just trying to ask if you –"

"How about your love life Miss. Lovegood? The most contact that I have personally, and unfortunately, witnessed you have with a member of the opposite sex was at the Yule Ball when you spilled punch all over Mr. Longbottom and he had to be escorted from his date for a quarter of an hour so Madam Pomfrey could halt an allergic reaction. Has it been more electrifying since?"

Luna could only stare as Snape flicked his wand at a buzzing fly that had been circling him, the small insect dropping from midair whereupon it twitched and dragged itself about an inch on the floor before becoming still.

"Professor, I think you have the wrong idea, what I was –" Luna was stopped short again.

"What of your friends Miss. Lovegood, though I am most likely wrong in assuming you somehow scrounged up at least a few during seven years at Hogwarts, have you talked to your classmates since you fought alongside them in battle? The conversations now must be all the more riveting after such death and chaos, much more appealing than what's been said here today."

Snape's assault upon Luna was like a steam engine gaining speed over a bridge that did not connect with the other side. They both knew, but neither could arrest its furor.

"What are you trying to say, Prof –" Again, Luna was cut off ruthlessly, Snape nearly spitting on her with his next barrage upon her being.

"How about work at The Quibbler alongside your father? I suppose I am the next best thing to farce evaluations of pus…"

"Really, I'm –" Luna was losing her breath, which was ironic because she had not strung a sentence together since Snape's tirade began. Sweat was beginning to glisten on her forehead, her hands clenching into fists as Snape continued to degrade her life in a casual way, reclining in his seat with a cruel sneer upon his lips.

"Your talent for being gratingly random, distastefully insensitive, and I'll put it bluntly, a damned annoyance to others around you are traits that I can only sum up to faulty in your parents' upbringing of you. Perhaps you should have spent more time around your mother instead of gallivanting with imaginary 'Blibbering Humdingers' and whatever other idiotically made-up creatures your father has ranted about in issues of such an utterly worthless magazine," Snape snapped. He seemed quite done and pleased, leaning forward in his seat, an action that urged her to respond.

It was only when his eyes alighted upon her face did he realize he had gone too far, perhaps even for return. And even later than that he remembered vaguely, many years ago, Dumbledore mentioning Luna's mother's death in a passing conversation with Professor Flitwick, the head of her house.

Tears had welled in her large blue eyes, her stare baffled and full of a tangent pain that gripped something inside of Snape, making him feel young and mortified.

There were no words between the two as he handed her a handkerchief from within his cloak and watched her dab at her eyes and honk loudly into the tissue.

"Fish and chips, Miss. Lovegood?" She looked up surprised, but seeing soft note in the man's gaze she nodded and allowed a gurgle of laughter to escape her lips as she thought over what had just happened in the course of five minutes. It was a good thing that The Hole was completely devoid of customers, for any onlooker would be mystified beyond belief at the cycles of their discourse.

"My thoughts exactly, Professor Snape."

**A chilling wind** tore violently through the bristling treetops as a cascading light blocked all forces of the outer world from the shadowed forest. Copious vines clung to the undergrowth that once existed only as trampling ground for mischievous students on detention or magical creatures scrounging for food. The forest no longer housed beasts of old, yet it remained an exemplar of power that allowed for it to thrive and exist at its own will.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry also continued to live. It now boasted Professor McGonagall as the Headmistress, who, although different in manner from Dumbledore in some ways, still held the school in high authority and strived to keep the Hogwarts spirit and history alive while it remained a symbol of safety and hope for the entire wizarding world. Not even The War had been able to stifle its protective walls.

While Hogwarts had flourished, in comparison the Forbidden Forest was a mixture of life and death. Existing only as a dark abyss that attempted to absorb the exalted school's light, the Forest itself was a tenuous fragment of darker times and thus it persevered as an afterthought no longer a concern to the dwellers of Hogwarts. Light no longer glossed its labyrinth of disheveled branches and no sound was audible, generating an almost ghostly presence of which no being had mustered the courage to defy for over two years.

Two very long years, all of which had taken their toll on a decomposed Lord Voldemort. Not yet dead, though many thought him so, but blissfully unaware of the world around him. Time had stopped for the wizard who had once fought for eternity, for he remained in an endless sleep, stricken by the toils of war and because of Harry Potter.

Immobile in his morass crypt, Voldemort survived without any knowledge of his existence nor any directive towards a future, his body now lacking the power that had enquired him such a youthful composition. His snake-like looks faded beneath the dim shade of the trees that housed his frail body. His skeletal, seared hands lay positioned as if in deep prayer and his gaunt body was no longer reminiscent of a shrine bearing power. Lord Voldemort's thin eyelids remained anchored shut, but it was his expression that imparted another tale. Red lips refused to part with the living as they clung recklessly to the drained man's weak features. They appeared to form a silken smile that could only be assumed to be a trick of the exposing light.

**"You said he'd** wake up by now!"

"We said there was a chance he'd wake up."

"Then why hasn't he woken up yet?"

"There was a chance he was to awaken Mr. Malfoy, but we also stated that the longer he stayed this way the less likelihood of him ever coming to again." The nurse nodded her head curtly before making her way down the hall.

Draco swore as he headed back into the hospital room furious, hating everything she had said yet knowing very well he had heard it all before. He just still refused for it to be the only answer he could receive.

"Bloody nurses know nothing in this fucking hospital." Breathing heavily, Draco slammed the door shut behind him, caring little for the amount of noise he made as the door crashed into position, the window shudders flapping against glass and walls shaking in reply.

For the past two years, he had found himself coming back, always coming back, night after night - and now during the day too. At first it was due to Snape's wishes but the older man had made little contact with him from the time his trials ended, probably still feeling as though he had wronged Dumbledore in protecting the young Malfoy. Draco knew Snape had come to see Harry with Granger but it had gradually become less often as the months grew more and Harry's eyes remained closed.

Everyone who knew Harry was moving on, bar himself. He was stuck in the hope of and disappointment of each passing day, used to his routine of watching over his past nemesis, attached to the moments when the light shone over Harry's face at just the right angle and made him look more alive. So now he had excuses. He said it was to cure his curiosity, or he just happened to be passing by, or maybe he wanted to gloat as he watched Harry Potter in the position he had told the boy he would end up in for years. Neither defense was true or even necessary since he alone knew them. All it did was cover up the truth from himself, and he preferred it stay that way. He would not want to admit it, not even if he could.

The hospital room was too bare and he hated the sight of it. It had an uninhabited feel to it; despite Harry lying in the bed, it still felt empty. There was a window on the far wall, a small table, a couch and a couple of chairs. The walls were bare, the window bordered with steel, everything so smooth and perfect it made him sick. Sterile and untouched, something he almost wished his heart to be.

Flopping down on the chair he had pulled up next to the bed, he ran his fingers through his pale, blonde hair. Groaning, he looked to Harry from the corner of his eye, taking in all he could about the young man who had so soon become an object of obsession and desires.

He had angered over everyone's fascination with the boy when younger but now he understood how it was possible, he just did not know why. Harry was pale from the sun not having touched his skin for so long, his closed mouth looked wan and dry. His hair used to have a sort of stubbornness of its own, poking from every which end it felt compelled to. Now the black tufts lay lifeless across the pillow, still messy but subdued. His breath was steady yet shallow, almost impossible to notice without eyes that sat anxiously waiting for every rise and fall, every subtle movement that assured his life still being present, even if by a thread that withered with each fleeting day.

"Harry."

Draco stared long and hard at Harry's unconscious form, the beginnings of a sneer appearing on his fine features.

"Always playing the hero. You really are an oaf, Potter. A bloody git to the end."

Draco laughed as he leaned back into the stiff chair he sat in. As his smirk lessened, so did his laughter, leaving the room silent once again, save for the slight sounds coming from outside. He sat there, unblinking and motionless, letting his thoughts settle as he watched Harry. The slow rise and fall of his breathing, the only signs, always the only signs, of his life. How tired he was of watching him breathe, just breathe day in and day out. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands in front of his face, closing his eyes for half a second before opening them once again; the grey had gone wide and livid.

"Forget you Potter. Fuck this fucking waste of my time. You don't think I've better things to do than come here and watch you breathe? We all fucking breathe to live and you're just not living properly!" Draco's voice rose as he grew angrier, though his rage was not entirely for Harry. It was more so towards himself, for coming this far for so long. Springing to his feet, Draco's eyes narrowed.

"This is the last time you'll get a look from Draco Malfoy."

Turning on his heel, he briskly made his way to the door, opening it and taking a single step out. He stopped. Still able to see Harry's form from the corner of his eye he turned his head slightly and regarded Harry uncomfortably, his gaze downwards as he remained in the doorway.

"May the gods help me," he muttered, sighing heavily. "See you soon, Harry."

With that, he marched away, shutting the door lightly behind him and apparating from St. Mungos with a loud crack.

Fifteen minutes later a nurse walked into Harry's room as scheduled, checking on him and taking the usual notes she was required to do. As she readied to leave something caught her eye, and turning back to Harry she bent down a bit and stared at his hand. There tightly in his grasp was something small and golden. Lifting his hand, she loosened his fingers hold and something flew out of his grip, fluttering around the room for a bit before falling to the ground near the window.

Startled, the perplexed nurse peered around the room not quite sure what had flown from his hand. Still searching, she caught sight of a shimmering light near the window and made her way towards it. Bending down she picked up the small object, and realizing what it was she smiled curiously at it.

There she held a golden snitch. Once it might have been flying around wildly in an Quidditch match, but now had a home in the bleak hospital room, wing broken, no longer able to fly in the skies just as the boy who once held it.

**Some point in November, 1995**

Luna Lovegood raised her hand, fingers wriggling in the air and her wide eyes batting innocently. With a wound up expression taking over his features, Snape sighed. Undoubtedly, he had come to expect this in a Potions lesson with the insufferable girl, who got under his nerves almost as much as Miss. Granger and her posse of imbeciles.

"This had better be important and correlated to the lesson, Miss. Lovegood."

"Oh, it is," Luna nodded as the radishes hanging from her earlobes rocked back and forth, trying not to look too pleased that he had gotten her name right. "You forgot to add lint of Unisock," she did not falter as snickers begin to circulate around the dungeon. "In the list of ingredients for the potion we're making."

More laughter from her classmates, and a wad of parchment thrown at her head from somewhere in the back. Snape had never looked closer to kneeling before his desk and bashing his head forward, over and over.

"Miss. Lovegood, how many years do you think I have been Potions master at this school-"

"Seventy-six and a half this May!" interrupted a grinning Michael Corner.

"Seventy-six and a half points from Ravenclaw Corner, if only for the complete lack of humor in your half-brained attempt for a laugh, of which you notably didn't get."

Snape continued to Luna without missing a beat. "- do you really think that such a thing as Unisock lint would ever exist in real life, and if it did, would it be included in such a sophisticated potion as the Wit-Sharpening Potion, which you _clearly_ need?" He eyed Michael while saying this as well.

"Why, if such a 'creature' exists, may my nose grow larger." He sneered at his own joke.

Luna looked shocked, but her blue eyes sparkled mysteriously.

"Oh no, sir, you shouldn't have said that. The Unisock is fabled to make such things come true!"

Corner sniggered. "His nose is big enough already, Loony." He turned to Snape and bravely asked, "Can't you make a potion to fix that!"

Snape's dark eyes narrowed.

"Fifty more points, Corner, with detention for the rest of this month." _And I've already tried..._

**The outer peace** of Harry Potter's face was in sharp contrast to the happenings below the surface of his sealed eyelids. There was no sporadic tossing and turning; there were no beads of sweat dampening the sheets that covered him. No, none would have suspected the violent struggle brewing within him after glimpsing his calm body lying in a hospital bed. It was a strenuous battle fought for almost two years now: between good and evil, between light and dark. As always, the fate of the masses rested on the shoulders of Harry Potter.

_Two Years Prior_

His mind was surrounded by an empty space that continued to stretch on into the distance. There was no end to this all-encompassing nothingness; the blinding space was void of anything living and breathing, until now. Mysterious floating images flickered into view, as if levitated projector pictures, too dim for viewing. As one such image passed close to him, Harry's inner mind was awoken and reached out for it. The moment his mind made contact, the strange picture faltered and he grasped bare air. The faint image produced itself once more and it was as if Harry was watching a silent film in the cinema. There was he, and everyone else, fighting in the war. Another similar image drifted by and Harry touched this as well. This one showed him in his first year at Hogwarts saving the Philosopher's Stone. As Harry finished with one memory, another would come, and soon Harry was watching his life pass before of his eyes.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of red light exploded into the white emptiness. As it inched closer and closer to Harry's mind source it emanated a brutal force that caused him to flinch slightly. He could not know why but in an instant he knew it was his duty to push this light as far away as possible. Still, if he were to touch this with his bare hands he feared it might kill him, that it was meant to kill him. But there was no time to worry about that; the light was coming to him at breakneck speed. Thinking fast, he tried to force it away with his mind, focusing on the mind power to act as shield. With all of the mental strength that he could gather, he managed to keep it from coming any closer. Little by little, the light started reversing its direction and backtracking to wherever it came from. Sometimes, it would move back towards Harry just a little bit, but it never touched him.

Harry had realized at that very moment, the first of countless times this would occur, that he would have to fight the lethal red light ray, push it away, if he wanted any chance of surviving. He just was unsure of if he could do it by himself.

**Luna frowned. "But** how can the death of Dumbledore, the greatest wizard we have ever known, be equated to a _sacrifice_, especially since the wizarding world needed him during such a dangerous chapter of our history? And what about Harry Potter - he barely succeeded in destroying the Horcruxes without Dumbledore's help."

"You forget about the ancient magic Dumbledore and I employed when we preplanned his own death, Miss. Lovegood," Snape drawled, Luna recognizing the agitated tone that was lacing his words, "The magic was enacted when I..." Snape hesitated for only one second, "…killed him. It would then leave in me the ability to protect Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, even myself – us all - in ways that I am not sure you can possibly begin to comprehend fully."

"Try me."

Snape sighed but his tone had become much lighter when he finally responded, "I will, Miss. Lovegood."

"But first, to answer your other inquiry - we were fully confident in Potter's ability to find and demolish the remaining Horcruxes, all but for his own scar, and his ignorance was vital in Albus and I succeeding. Dumbledore felt that he had given Potter all the information he needed up to the certain point where I would be the one to help him destroy the Dark Lord without turning his wand upon himself. Again, our magic would be of assistance to his task."

Luna was watching him in rapt attention, too enthralled to even blink. Had Snape been this engaging in class she might have passed her Potions final her fourth year.

"It has all been said and said again at the first series of my trialing but for your sake, Miss. Lovegood, a daresay I will step into it once more. I had a premonition that sprung into my view from the moment Harry Potter stepped foot into Hogwarts and it grew as the years went on. As a spy," his lip curled in aversion to the word, "I had known about Voldemort's venture into the world of Horcruxes, and it seemed after everything symbolic he had chosen to be one, his thug of a snake Nagini was a little too obvious for me to take sincerely as the last. It was on a night of a Death Eater gathering following his immediate return that Voldemort let it slip to me alone that Harry's own scar held the key to 'our' victory. I made my guess from there. It was then that I started searching for something, for anything, which would help me save Potter from himself: taking his own life when he realised that he would have to call Voldemort's bluff to save our world."

"But it was more than that. I had made an Unbreakable Vow, I presume you know what that is, with Narcissa Malfoy to save her son Draco from Voldemort's clutches, and it was my bluff that put lives on the line as well. Finding the solution to this debacle became my obsession, my only reason for living..."

"That shan't have been easy," Luna prodded as Snape's words faded and he looked as though he were miles away.

He blinked once, and focused on her, settling back into his seat with arms folded. "Of course it wasn't. Of what time in my life I wasn't spending to teach brats or pulling a double agent act I was in a seemingly endless quest to find the source of magic, I knew there must be one, to save Harry Potter's life and defeat Voldemort in the same instance. And then I did, the summer before his sixth year. An obscure branch of ancient magic that would allow me to save Draco from Voldemort's order that he assassinate Dumbledore and allow Potter to kill Voldemort without harming himself, or so it should not have. But to this day I sometimes wish I had not found it."

"Because what you found needed a sacrifice."

"Yes."

"And Dumbledore was the only person powerful enough to encompass so many lives in one act."

"Yes."

"And he agreed willingly to do this, to die, off bat?"

"Yes."

Luna leaned back herself and eyed her former Potions master, feeling the weight of his past shift unnervingly around her shoulders.

"That was so selfless, for both of you."

"Apparently, Miss. Lovegood, was I not found innocent?"

"Yes, yes I know. Though Professor," she paused, searching for words, "Do you ever feel that the effort was wasted, considering Harry and Voldemort both fell? I mean, well, obviously the Dark side was defeated but in those last seconds both Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort fell comatose. I know Harry's in St. Mungo's, and I'm not quite sure what did happen with Voldemort's body… but it has been two years and Harry still hasn't woken. Perhaps Voldemort is not even defeated yet. Perhaps it was all a lost cause…" She glowered into her hands folded before her.

The reassuring tone of Snape's voice caused her to glance up.

"Miss. Lovegood, the fact stands that Harry Potter did not die. Things certainly did not pan out exactly the way I had thought it would originally, but the boy is still breathing and I for one have full faith that one day soon Mr. Potter will awake again, because I've never known a young man so determined to be a hero. And heroes live. Even Dumbledore, who lives on in his memory. So I am waiting, not in earnest but in expectance, for the day Harry Potter will walk the streets again. Aren't you?"

Luna thought for a long moment and then nodded, before noticing and swatting a fly off of her sleeve while muttering, "Damn Unisock is mucking about again!"

Snape rolled his eyes and reached for the Firewhiskey, snatches of a memory tugging at his concentration.

**The night was **serene and the sky had darkened. Stars glittered across the sky like guardians alit from a faraway world. A frail breeze wandered through the darkened forest as the trees groaned softly, their limbs rustling with echoing whispers that were nearly inaudible to the human ear.

"You are taking yourself for granted, Albus."

"You knew I would have to from the start, Severus."

"That was then, but you're expecting too much from me now. It's becoming more difficult to go on like this. Suspicions are running higher now than ever and that cannot be ignored."

Dumbledore's white eyebrows furrowed as he stared into Snape's bottomless black eyes. Not an ounce of his usual gentle nature could be seen upon his aging face, it was as though this were the mask he could only wear when dealing with souls that refused to yield to only his kindness. Snape stared right back into the Headmaster's own eyes, noticing that despite the man's age and the dark of the night they still glistened with the same twinkle they harbored since his youth. So much knowledge beyond lifetimes could be seen in those eyes.

Breathing out in frustration, Snape turned away. The burdens he chose for himself were wearing at him like waves mauling over rocks until they are nothing more than grains of sand.

"You must and you will do this for me, Severus. You are the only one I can trust to do it well and I had hoped you would have understood that. Do not make me regret my assumption now."

Dumbledore's words sliced into the worn Professor, each one weighing on him heavily, and his own guilt adding more to its furor upon his conscience.

"I understand Headmaster, but you know as well as I that this has gone far beyond what I, what we, had expected and agreed to." Snape's voice was low, tired.

Dumbledore responded, much warmer in tone, allowing his hand to grasp Snape's shoulder and squeeze. "You agreed to it Severus, because you know how necessary it is to Voldemort's defeat as I do, and that is all there is to it."

Snape began to reply but his words were interrupted when a loud snap of twigs was heard not too far from where they stood. Snape's head turned abruptly toward the sound, his dark hair whipping around his face as he scanned the area. Narrowing his eyes, Snape strained his ears for any other noise, his heart pounding and body tense. The Headmaster stared into the darkness too, before looking at the sky and then returning his gaze to his younger friend once more.

"I implore you Severus, I need you to do this for me and it needs to be tonight. The stars are aligned exactly for our task." The urgency in his voice was quite clear and although Snape felt torn, he knew the likely result of this night would be in time to Dumbledore's wishes.

He was silent for long minutes before: "Very well. But first let me search this perimeter, who knows what unwelcome eyes and ears are present."

He was recalling the sound of twigs snapping in the background. Dumbledore had no choice but to agree to this request, secrecy was critical no matter how much time would be wasted. It was all they could do.

"Take haste Severus, once dawn is upon us it will be months yet until we have occasion for this magic again, and then who knows if that might be too late."

Nodding tersely, Snape held his wand at the ready and strode out of the small grove, circling the area for any signs of unwanted guests. Gazing up, his sight lingered for a second on the school. A majority of the lights were off, darkened rooms shielding ignorant students, teachers, even elves. All of them sleeping either in peace or haunted by their daily fears elaborated into nightly visions, unaware that their Headmaster has been quite literal when he had promised his life to them at taking the head position of the castle so long ago. Either way it did not matter, it was to be done and no more time or effort could be thrown out to postpone it. Turning back, he made his way to the Headmaster, who presently paced earnestly.

"Anyone?"

"It seems as if all is clear. Perhaps it was some creature, a heavy one at that. If it was anyone he or she is no longer here," Snape said with certainty.

"Good, good, and remember it could always have been Hagrid making his nightly rounds, and that is hardly leave for worry. Time is of the essence and that we have little of now."

Sometime before the breeze had all but died, leaving everything still and kept in place, frozen in the moment as if the forest itself understood the significance of what was about to happen.

"Are you ready, Severus?"

"As much as I can allow myself to be Albus. Give the word and I shall begin."

Placing his hand once more upon Snape's shoulder, Dumbledore made Snape meet his eyes as he spoke his next words: "I thank you dearly, Severus. You have always proven to be honorable in all that you do and for this I owe you my life and more."

Snape looked at him but said nothing. The Headmaster's soft expression had since changed as he stepped away, giving his signal for the Snape to begin.

Snape shut his eyes, allowing himself to settle whatever nerves were rattled within, letting his breath slow as he concentrated on the texture of the air, the earth beneath his feet, the stars above in a constellation that formed a distinct triangle through the black expanse of sky. A single blunder would cost more than a lost chance to finish the mission, it would cost countless lives. But a wind had picked up again and assured him as he parted his lips and began:

_Sepemtrium Ildusiestus momituri efiltra morfus dimina._

With every word spoken, Snape's baritone voice reverberated throughout the forest. Not in sound but in power, circling the area and weaving around himself a spell of immense force as Dumbledore proceeded to circle him in precise movements to Snape's chanting. Were a naive spectator to come about, they would think the scene to be nothing more than a drunken lunatic swaying madly under the moonlight.

_Esfime siria cursus geninta ferli ostus dena._

With gaining verve Dumbledore proceeded around Snape, his arms flailing about his lean form and his steps light and quick. Spinning and dunking every so often as if to emphasize the meaning or purpose of the particular movement, his long violet robes swooshed along to the chanting as if they too were a part of the scheme. The vanished breeze had just as quietly returned, growing stealthily with every line that was uttered by Snape.

_Carcas no sumileme quentim._

A light, which had begun as a miniscule glimmer, had steadily grown from the triangular outline of stars above, its glow playing faintly with the shadows of the Headmaster's movements, defining every arc, line, and shift his undulating body made.

_Venimu fodos gimteus animus faleti. Sircas ahinas jinius leipami resirus._

The light strengthened, fading for just a single second before resurfacing with a pulsating white glow that marked a path in the air surrounding Dumbledore and Snape as it continued on with what it had been summoned to do, the finishing touches of the spell coming into full effect. Bending his middle, Dumbledore bounced left and right with a litheness that was unthinkable for a man of his age, before with one last exaggerated leap away from Snape, he fell forward to the ground, his forehead nestled in dead leaves and soil.

When Snape opened his eyes the air had become chilly, the light he had sensed was no longer visible, and the breeze that he had felt caressing his chanting lips had long since died. Feeling himself weaken he stumbled a bit, only held up by the Headmaster's sturdy grip around his thin waist. Guided towards a slanted tree, Snape gladly rested upon it knowing that he had done his part and from what he could perceive, he had done it right.

The Headmaster smiled faintly, looking at the man before him with care in his expression, as he brushed some limp black hair away from Snape's face. "You did well Severus. So very well. All is ready and now we wait. I pray things will not stray from the path we have lain out tonight."

Snape, who had closed his eyes as soon as he knew the support of the tree was behind him, opened them once more and stared at the Headmaster. "It would seem that so far straying from the path is the only way to arrive before the right direction."

Dumbledore pondered for a moment and then nodded, the twinkle once again in his eyes. "And," he smiled broadly, "who would have ever thought belly-dancing could be so pleasurable?"

Snape's choked laughter resembled a sob as he leant his head back, shaking it slightly. He was as devastated as he was amused, and could no longer meet eyes with the smiling old man if he wished to keep his forever in restraint emotions under their usual control.

Dumbledore spoke again as he put his arms around Snape and helped his colleague up, a little taken aback at how easily Snape obliged.

"Indeed Severus, you should try it sometime. Of course without the whole ancient magic to save our world bit…"

Snape cocked a brow, though a faint smile still played on his thin lips. "Perhaps you are more out of it than I, old man. We should return to the castle."

"Oh yes, of course. And I could go for a bit of tea right about now. Care to join me, Severus?"

Dumbledore turned back as he waited for Snape to walk with him, knowing the Professor had become as drained in the last hour as Dumbledore had become old.

"Another day perhaps."

"Very well then, it shall just be Fawkes and myself. " He smiled as he assisted Snape back to the castle, feeling less strained and pressed for time now that they had completed the last of their plan.

At the entrance to Hogwarts Snape stilled and turned to Dumbledore once more, and his posture had become rigid again, his face lined and serious.

"I will probably hate you as I finish with you, Albus."

"And I will love you more for it, Severus."

**Ginny Weasley walked** briskly up to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for what would be her sixteenth visit of the month. The large bedraggled building made the young woman appear very small, towering over her as she neared the entrance. She stopped just short of the glass windows, behind which a particularly dowdy mannequin stood.

Not that she was an icon of style today, with plain black robes over a brown pencil skirt and white collared blouse. Work attire that she had always hated and felt stifling that was now almost all she wore. The only inkling to her more buoyant fashion past was a glittering jade clip that held her bright red hair together in a loose updo. She now ran her hands over that ginger mass of hair, collecting her thoughts and preparing for the sight she had been subjected to for the past two years since Harry... went away.

However, before she could utter a word to the doll behind the glass, a tall dark man caught her eye in the reflection of the window. He was standing to her side and a step behind her, an obvious smirk on his lips as he deftly swept a stray piece of hair from her face to the safety of behind an earlobe. The young man was black and handsome, with smooth dark skin and high cheekbones that complimented his wide, pearly white grin.

"Well, look who we have here," his voice matched his manner, slick and deep, and sent a slight shiver down her spine, "Miss. Ginny Weasley. I've known witches prettier than you, but none with such... memorable... hair," he finished, letting his slanted hazel eyes rake over more than just her orange locks.

"Get over yourself, Zabini," Ginny replied coldly, eyeing him with suspicion, as any former Gryffindor would treat a former Slytherin. "Is there a real reason that you're keeping me from my business or was the beauty salon too full this afternoon?"

"Keep those Jimmy Choo's on, Weaslette," Blaise shot back, borrowing Draco's favorite name for the Weasley daughter and grinning as he saw her confusion to his reference. Years before he despised her for associating with Muggles and now he knew them probably better than she. "But does this mean you think I'm beautiful?"

Ginny closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her voice becoming pieced and annoyed, "Why are you here, Zabini?"

He put a finger to his lips and tapped as if in thought. "Is this not the hospital? Am I not free to come before this public building?" Blaise asked finally, his slanted eyes glinting with laughter unvoiced.

"Right..." muttered Ginny, trailing off, her expression softening in the slightest. She cocked her head and looked up to him with an eyebrow raised. Blaise made no comment but continued to stand and gaze at Ginny in silence for a few moments until he appeared to suddenly remember why he was there.

"Have you seen Draco Malfoy, in or around here?" Blaise asked simply.

"No and I wouldn't give a rat's arse if I did," Ginny answered fiercely, remembering a day not too long ago when she had seen a glimpse of a blonde male exiting Harry's room and disapparating before she had a chance to approach. She had questioned a nearby nurse about it but the woman had assured her there was no one scheduled to visit Harry so early in the morning and suggested she get some rest if she was seeing things of the sort.

"What's it matter to you anyway?" She asked.

"Well, considering he's my flatmate and I –" he began, but stopped as he changed his mind against explaining himself. Instead, Blaise turned the tables. "What are you doing here, Ginny Weasley?"

Ginny appeared rather taken aback by the question, having nearly forgotten where she was and the reason in the presence of Blaise. Regaining composure, she snapped, "If you can't deduce the obvious, I won't be bothered to let you know."

"I've never been one to immediately assume the obvious true," he replied, shrugging. He took a step closer to her, so they were half an arm's length apart. He looked as though he were going to run a hand through her hair again; she looked as though she would not have minded. Ginny's facial expression became unreadable as she focused her eyes to a point just beyond Blaise's shoulder.

Finally, "I'm here to visit my _boyfriend_," her voice cracked on the word and she blinked a few times, feeling her face get hot, "Harry Potter." The words had sounded ridiculous even to her. Too embarrassed to look Blaise in the face now, she looked instead towards the ground, finding interest in the coiling patterns of the beige cobblestones.

Ginny was too surprised to move when she felt strong arms wrap themselves around her petite body frame, and she still made no objection as she felt a cheek rest over her head, two bodies rocking gently on the sidewalk as if they were the only two people in the world. These years had made her weak, and she was suddenly aware now that had made Blaise Zabini change.

In school he had slithered behind Draco Malfoy all day long (even farther back than Crabbe and Goyle) and only lent kind words towards Slytherin females he desired to bed. It was no secret how absurdly narcissistic he was, and it had been a joke around the Gryffindor common room for a long time after the Yule Ball how Blaise had arrived two hours late to the dance because the two Slytherin second years he had hired to style his hair had gotten panicked and accidentally spelled a chunk off. He had a cold manner and an untouchable quality, not letting it go unknown that he fully respected Voldemort and his beliefs, perhaps even more so than Malfoy had.

She had realised he hated her in her fifth year, as she walked down the hallway to Charms hand-in-hand with Dean Thomas. Blaise Zabini was heading the opposite direction and their eyes locked before Ginny stepped into Flitwick's classroom. His sneer became more pronounced with eyes narrowed into serpent-like slits, his repulsion to her presence palpable in the air as they passed each other within a second gone by. She had cared in the least what he thought of her then, and had forgotten the instance until now.

Now that he held her, or rather supported her because she knew if he let go her legs would buckle and she would fall to the ground and not even desire to be pulled up again. She was weak; he had changed.

"I'm not letting you go in there I hope you realize," he said into her hair, his chuckle tickling her scalp. "You need space, time to think, a moment of rest." She did not disagree, but burrowed her head farther into his sturdy chest.

Blaise glanced briefly at the building by which they stood, and turned his head back to her, a little smile on his lips. "Would a little lunch hurt us?"

Now it was Ginny's turn to laugh lightly and she still spoke into his chest, "Didn't you just say I needed space?"

Blaise put a hand to her forehead and stroked her side-fringe back, causing her to tilt her head and look up at him once more. "Did I say that? I must have meant space to eat, time to think about wine, a moment of rest in each other's company…" he said, still grinning.

Ginny sucked in a long breath, without thought running her hands up and down Blaise's back as she mulled over a decision she knew she had been heading towards for months. She looked from Blaise, to the entrance of the hospital, and back to Blaise again feeling hopelessly torn. Her cinnamon-hued eyes shone with anxiety, but suddenly, after a few long moments, a peace fell over them and she shook her head, smiling to herself.

"If that's a no I won't say I'm not a little hurt it makes you smile…" Blaise started uncertainly, pulling away.

Ginny's eyes widened and she held on to the retreating young man. "Wait, no!" She paused, confused, screwing up her forehead in a way that made Blaise strongly desire to press his lips to it. "I meant yes!" She finally got it out, "You know I meant yes."

He smirked.

"But hear this," Ginny continued breathlessly, "Act like a bastard and you'll find yourself at the wrong end of a bat-bogey hex!" Blaise flashed a smile, putting his arm around Ginny once more, steering her down the busy London street.

"Me, a bastard? How could you ever relate the two," he returned with a laugh. "But now, tell me all about yourself, Ginny Weasley. What have you been up to since I graduated from Hogwarts? Oh yes, and where would you like to eat, The Three Broomsticks, Madame Puddifoots?" He chuckled at Ginny's expression at the mention of the latter.

Ginny looked back only one last time.

**Neville Longbottom sat **on the edge of his bed, and though he appeared to be gazing out of a half-opened window his mind was elsewhere. Not a single thought of his remained in the room he sat in, all of them pouring over a time that had long past. Blinking every so often, he lowered his head to gaze at his knees as every event flashed in his mind as it had so many times before.

The room was adequately furnished. A comfortable bed with simple sheets, a good many shelves whose rich wood covered two whole walls, most of them brimmed to capacity with books on plants. There was a single window at the far end of the room, across from the door, though it was large and let in a good amount of light. A slight breeze danced into the room, allowing fresh air to pair up with the old and then waltz out as quickly as it came.

By the window was an old mahogany desk. A few books lay scattered on it, as well as random notes he had written, all of them holding some reference to the battle from two years ago. Placed near the center of the desk was Neville's most beloved treasure, his Mimbulus Mimbletonia. The grey plant had been with him for some time now and Neville now considered it his dearest friend. It even had a name.

"It's been so long Mimby," he said softly, dragging it closer to him and careful to avoid touching the greyish boils as he did so.

"Too long, everything's changed, and I don't really think it can over return back to how it was… you know? Harry hasn't awakened yet, and Ron's gone. Seamus is dead, and Hermione is off somewhere, I've no idea where, or with who... Everyone has scattered. I have just you Mimby, only you."

The war had wrought havoc upon poor Neville's already fragile mental stamina but the full effects would only be quite clear to one who spent time with him in this bedroom of his grandmother's house that he resided in. After his own short trials had ended the boy had become a shell of a person, and it was plain to his grandmother that if she wanted to save him from ending up in the same position as his parents she would need to take him in, nurture him back to strength, physically and emotionally. The woman had been strict with her grandson all through his life, until she knew what he did in The War, and then she thought herself to have housed a stranger for seventeen years. All she could do now was love him and wait, though she was unsure if that was enough.

Neville stroked at Mimby's pot as he spoke, eyes gazing to a faraway place.

"You wouldn't leave me, right Mimby? After all that's happened, you're the only one who understands. What I did that day and why I can't move on. I've tried so hard but I still remember it as if each day I step again into battle," he ended in a whisper, "Every time I try to sleep I see her."

Neville looked at the plant quizzically.

"It's not easy to forget the dreams, Mimby. I've tried, I've tried not to dream but I can't. I've given up sleeping. You've seen me."

Again, Neville looked at the plant and nodded, rolling his eyes and sighing.

"Yes, I know, I know, reading does help, but I'm starting to run out of room. I've already filled the shelf Gran got me last week! I don't know where to put them all..."

Sighing again, Neville let his fingers keep tracing the contours of Mimby's pot. Tilting his head up so he looked out the window, he blinked as a few rays of sunlight washed over him. Smiling at the warmth, he closed his eyes and breathed in. For a second he felt as if nothing had ever happened, as if everything was unchanged. Then the warmth slowly crept away. A dark cloud had covered the sun, instantly reminding Neville of the day he so longed to forget.

"It looks just like that day right now. As if the weather could predict death's location because it was quite sunny until the first curse was said. Then all just went shady and dim." Neville was no longer talking to Mimby. "The day I killed them. Well she killed Mr. Malfoy but I made her, my fault… The sun went away that day too, just dark clouds that seemed to doom us all."

His fingers tapped on the plant's pot slightly, a nervous habit he had developed over the past couple years.

"They were both killing everything in sight, smiling in the midst of battle, it was terrible. It was Snape who got Mr. Malfoy first but that didn't kill him… I don't think Snape was aiming to kill him anyway - just to get him out of the way. But then she came and it happened. I had… I had no choice." Neville looked away from Mimby, she knew his lies well. "Alright, I'll be truthful," he said in a low voice. "I meant to kill her… but that was before I knew that it is not ghosts that haunt, it's death. Before I could think about Draco and his mother or anyone else who might have cared about them, even as unworthy of life as I thought they were. I meant to kill her. And that's why I hate myself now."

Neville's voice quivered slightly. He had hoped to never have to utter the events of that day to anyone, even a plant. He closed his eyes.

"I could have avoided it, I could have run away. I should have but I wanted to help. I wanted to be brave. No… above it all I wanted revenge. I wanted my parents to outlive the woman who cut their lives short. I put my wand to her head, she was at my knees you know, and I…I…" His voice trailed as he shook his head in agony.

"I killed her," he whispered through clenched teeth. Looking up slowly, he stared at Mimby as if he expected the plant to hate him now that he revealed his secret, thinking he had violated Mimby's trust by it. Sighing to the Mimbulus Mimbletonia, he rose up higher.

"I don't regret her dying, Mr. Malfoy that much either, but I'll never get over taking part in it. Never."

He stared up at the ceiling, losing himself in his thoughts once more.

"Neville dear, are you in there?"

Snapping back to reality, Neville turned his head to the door, which had now opened, his grandmother peering inside.

"Yes Gran."

She smiled at him warmly before stepping into the room.

"This came for you today. I believe it's what you have been waiting for."

The elderly woman placed a small package on his desk before slipping out of the room. Odd. Placing the package in his lap, he read the small note attached to it.

_It's been a while Neville. I was out one day when I bumped into Professor Sprout. She somehow managed to convince me I would enjoy this very much, and since she had an extra, it would be no problem for her to part with it. I remembered how you were always fascinated by Herbology so I figured you would enjoy this more than I would._

_Best wishes,_

_Hermione_

Now Neville's surprise was laced with intense curiosity as he pulled the strings off the paper wrapping revealing the components to grow a rare Yew tree. In awe he grabbed the seed and raised it up, a huge smile spreading over his lips.

"Look, Mimby! These are so uncommon and extremely remarkable once grown. A Yew! The tree of death and resurrection, of long living bark that sees into centuries what we won't ever…" His breath was becoming rapid and he got up to pace around the room, the cool seed protected in the heart of his palm.

Finally placing the seed and other growing contents down by Mimby, he smiled broadly feeling better than he had in a long while. "I think it's high time I go out and find the perfect place to plant my Yew."

He nodded to himself, still grinning like a madman, though he was saner than he had been in years. He folded the note from Hermione and lay it carefully next to Mimby, looking forward to writing a most sincere letter of thanks, or maybe he could find her now… ask around to see where she lived so he could catch up with her in person. But first he needed to find the place where he would grow his Yew, and he eagerly grabbed his coat and stepped across the room to the door.

It was high time he started on with his life, and it was apparent now was his best chance to greet high time. Neville left the house as the wind swerved slightly and blew in his direction.

**The sky** **was** beginning to grow darker as grey clouds rolled in, seeming to gain speed as they drew nearer to each other, each one bleaker than the last. The sun was out of sight and yet an ominous beam seemed to glow from above, no clear point visible from anywhere.

Wizards and witches slowly passed each other by, none paying mind to the other as they walked along engaged within their own lives. The scene was a continuance that seemed to keep them occupied as the street beneath their shoes coaxed them forward day after day.

No one seemed to notice the snow - a cold mysterious white that blurred the surroundings into a pale haze. It moved so slowly it seemed to be frozen to the air particles, forcing itself from the clouds' strong grasp to make a long journey to the waiting ground, where it stuck leaving everything in a heavenly cover, as if it were guarding a well-kept secret from the unseeing eyes above it.

Signs creaked, swaying lazily in the chilled breeze. Too soft to move more than a centimeter either way, they created a halted song of mourning as their shop windows glowed with a dispirited light, too cold to welcome anyone inside, but alluring enough to cause the thought to spring inside a few reluctant passersby's minds.

"Where am I?" A whisper in the atmosphere, turbid with silence. "I know this place."

All around everything lulled to a bone chilling pace, so slow and passive it seemed as if it were nothing more than a self-created world inside of glass bauble, shaken for nothing more than a giant's very own entertainment. The Leaky Cauldron lay ahead, its walls untouched by the sluggish snow and uninhabited by the blasé passersby. A lone shadowy figure stood in front of its cracked door, the windows giving off a fiery light, threatening to engulf whoever dared approach it.

"Who are you?"

Upon closer inspection, a familiar scar was seen glowing with a malicious aura of jade, as the shadowy figure seemed to have drawn nearer without moving at all and without the normal smile playing across his lips. His eyes were not visible. In his hands, he held the Time Turner.

Closer still Harry Potter drew as the device began to spin, at first unrushed whilst he held it kindly, almost lovingly. Farther back, a voice was heard, low and tapered at first, until a deafening scream echoed down the streets, the magical time traveling device now spinning wildly, forwards and then backwards. The glow from the windows increasing, releasing its red light as everything around reacted violently to Harry. Speeding up, everything in this compact world drew closer, threatening to collide into each other, until Harry looked up and time slowed. His eyes were glowing red and a devilish smirk spread over his lips.

"He's mine." It was a loud hiss, in a voice all too familiar.

**"Harry, no!"**

Draco Malfoy thrashed in the air as he shot up, terror-stricken, his breath spastic and eyes fluttering. Panting heavily he looked around, trying to decipher what had happened but only to see a few nurses looking at him oddly. Realizing it was only a dream, no more than a vivid nightmare, he took a deep breath to calm himself down. He was in public, and would not allow others to see him like this, unnerved and shaken. He blinked and cleared his throat as he recalled the night vision all again, the memory sending shivers down his spine.

How could something so unreal feel like it really happened, he wondered.

"It was just a dream. Get off it," he scolded himself, willing the trembles to cease, the nightmare replaying before his eyes like a broken record in an abandoned study. A chilling voice echoed in his mind, "_He's mine_." Feeling his heart pounding against his chest, Draco jumped from his seat in the cafeteria as he sprinted back to the room he should have never left in the first place.

Sliding past the door, Draco reached out to the wall to hold himself upright, reveling in the room that he become so accustomed to over the past two years. It at first had felt like a burden and then a second home. It had now become an alternative life.

There Harry lay, still upon the hospital cot, lost in a prolonged slumber and to the lives he had left behind. Blissfully unaware to a world that he had changed forever. A hero had fallen in hopes of a better time, for the good of a people, ignoring the pain his actions could, and had, cause those around him.

Draco at last settled his breathing, entering the hospital room, allowing the door to close behind him. Pulling out the same metal chair he had sat in day after day, long nights beyond long nights, Draco sat down and glared at Harry.

For a long week he had avoided coming, only to find himself back again, unable to forsake those blazing green eyes that had once looked at him with hate and suspicion. They now seemed to be closed to him forever.

Reaching out, almost hesitantly, Draco brushed his fingers against Harry's hand, feeling the soft, cool skin beneath his fingertips. Before, he dared to hope for the slightest reaction but now he knew better than to dwell on hope. Harry was gone, forever lost in this coma, a sacrifice he had chosen without vacillation or remorse.

"You know, I once read somewhere that a hero is a man who is afraid to run away," Draco paused and exhaled, rubbing his palms over his eyes before peering at the silent figure in front of him again. "Gods, I wish you would have fucking run away Potter!" Draco spat, feeling anger boiling inside his belly.

His eyes flashed as the hurt and frustration of many months danced within his pupils. Staring down at Harry, feeling such a loathing inside of him, he was not sure if he wanted to punch him, vomit, or cry - perhaps all three.

Looking away in disgust, Draco squeezed his eyes shut, his long blonde lashes making shadows over the slight purple discoloration under his eyes, the only sign on his outer being that showed how physically and mentally exhausted he had become, stemming back from the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts.

It was no use.

No matter how many times he grew infuriated towards Harry it never lasted longer than his eyes could stay open. His heart would not have it. Glancing back at the Harry's pale form, Draco placed the young man's limp hand into his own giving it a slight squeeze and murmured, "Come back to us, Potter... come back to me, Harry."

**A darkness swirled** all around, hints of a metallic light flashing for moments and then waning once more. All was dim, as though a grey film had been lain across of the area. With one blink, and then again, the obscure surroundings began to gain focus, revealing nothing more than what appeared to be an enclosed room. A dungeon, hidden deep underground, lost to those who knew not of its existence.

Harry winced in pain, his head feeling like it harbored a hoard of angry wasps, each giving him a piece of their tiny minds. It had been this way for longer than he could remember. Squinting up into the dimly lit room, he tried to get up only to be forced back to the ground flat. Glancing at his wrists, he noticed large shackles tying his whole body down, before realizing he was also currently on a large pedestal in the middle of the unfamiliar room. Harry thrashed against the chains, though the effort was less than futile. Sighing in defeat, he tried to reach into his pockets for his faithful wand, his fingertips stretching in desperation.

"You'll not find your wand there, Harry Potter."

Tensing, Harry's eyes widened. His head snapped from side to side in search of who spoke, the voice having an all too familiar chill.

"I've waited too long for this. Too long to have my plans foiled by you. First it was your mother's protection, a formidable barrier, but not enough to keep me from reaching my ultimate goal. You are mine now, Harry Potter."

"Voldemort."

Harry had known it was him. For the last two years since this new struggle began, using his mind strength to push light over evil, he knew it would have been too easy for it to be just that - forcing beads of energy from one end to another in a tug-of-war for life and death. The collision had only been a matter of time. And now here he was.

An eerie laugh rang out in the room.

"The end has drawn near for you, Harry Potter. This is your last stand."

Harry strained against his chains, hatred akin to the day of the last battle surging inside of him, as Voldemort's malicious whispers became less words but more shrill noises of vicious taunting. Every shameful memory Harry could have imaged, every moment he spent hours erasing from his mind thrown back at him, one after another, as Voldemort worked his way to weaken Harry for his true final battle, the final battle that would lead to the Dark Lord's ultimate victory. He could taste it.

Harry shut his eyes as he worked on blocking out Voldemort's incessant whispers. Yet no matter how he tried, Harry found himself reliving every agonizing memory, even ones he no longer recalled, as it throbbed into his being and demanded his attention.

Every recollection stabbed him deep: they were miniature daggers, long and sharp, having been shaped by the emotion of each occurrence. Feeling an exhaustion overtake him, Harry's effort to free himself lessened with every blow, his arms barely lifted, the chains rattling meekly in his measly attempts for escape. Again the laughter rang out, the same heinously melodious laughter that mocked Harry as he felt himself drained of his last vital life force.

"You were a fool to ever believe that I could be defeated by what immature powers you possess, Harry Potter. Your friends," Voldemort spat out the words as if it were a spoiled apple, "were smarter than you when they abandoned you. Now here you are steps away from your very end."

The whispering grew lower, almost as if Voldemort was speaking into his ear, getting a hold onto the his new power as he prepared to crush the last ounces of Harry's strength.

"Lily Potter wasted her last moments with you, and now you'll join her in yours."

Rage made his line of vision go white. Biting his lip until he taste blood, Harry threw himself upward, pulling against his shackles in rage.

"You know nothing!" Harry could hardly muster anything else as anger blinded him. But he felt a momentum. A building ball of elemental power exploding within his chest and slipping into his veins.

Pulling tightly at one end, Voldemort's laughter rang out again, but Harry ignored it as he let his newfound energy take over his being and a shackle snapped, freeing his right arm.

"You will never win, Voldemort. Or should I say Tom Riddle? You never had friends, love, or protection as either so I reckon it doesn't matter," Harry snarled as he remembered Ron and Hermione and all the others. "They have done more for me than I ever have for them. And that's why you're losing as I speak."

The left shackle broke off, clattering to the ground. Now upright, Harry jumped to his feet, looking around the shaded dungeon for any signs of Voldemort, heart thudding fiercely against his chest.

"Dumbledore gave his life to make sure I lived. And Albus Dumbledore always made sure his efforts went unwasted. If you want me, come and get me."

Harry's voice boomed throughout the dungeon, drowning out Voldemort's laughter and whispers, the last of his chains breaking off freeing him from the pedestal. Jumping down Harry spotted two rays of light at a far end. One golden and blaring, the other fading and silver.

Harry could feel Voldemort's blood boiling as he ran towards the two illuminating rays of color, breathing heavily, yet not loud enough to block his enemy's final words, "YOU WILL NOT ESCAPE FROM ME, HARRY POTTER. IT IS NOT AN OPTION THIS TIME."

"Not on your life, Tom. There is an option and it's for you to die." Harry turned swiftly and allowed his full attention to rest on the choice before him. The striking gold was welcoming and called to his mind as if it were his very aura, yet there was something so familiar about the glinting silver...

"_Come back to me, Harry_."

Harry heard the words and as if in a trance spun towards his left, the silver, knowing in the pit of his stomach that it was the one he must choose if he desired to live. Jetting towards it, Harry thrust himself through the glittering grey as a surge of blinding light burst around his being, causing him to shield his face.

Voldemort's screams echoed loudly as he cried out in ultimate defeat.

Back in Voldemort's mind, he continued to scream as his very own shackles pinned him down, his body beginning to wither away, his very flesh disintegrating from his resting place. Every last bit of the villain known as Voldemort slipping away as a nightmare would once morning light has broken to a new day liberated from past fears.

**Harry slowly stirred**, opening his eyes slightly, shrinking away from the light that was shining down on him. He lay for long minutes with his eyes closed trying to understand what was happening. The light burned and he was painfully aware of the glare on his skin, making his forehead wrinkle and mouth dry.

It was longer still before he opened his eyes again; finally able to face brightness he had not known since two years before. He sluggishly gazed around long enough to register the hospital. It had to be, as it was the only place he knew of that depended so heavily on white for décor.

He noticed that someone was holding his hand. A light grip that was warm and secure over his own stiff fingers. He stared in a stupor at the slim, pale hand over his own before letting his eyes crawl their way up to an arm, then a shoulder, and then the white, drawn face of a dozing Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy?" Harry croaked. For someone who had in essence just come back to life he was slightly peeved his cheeks so quickly had the ability to flush.

Draco remained still, not having heard Harry. No more wanting to believe he may actually have heard him speak, knowing that it was all in his mind from lack of rest and wishful thinking.

"Malfoy," Harry breathed, "...Draco, was it you?"

Draco eyes flipped open and he looked towards Harry in shock, only to see two emerald eyes staring intently back at him. Tensing, Draco was unsure as to whether he was hallucinating or not. He dropped Harry's hand as if burned and stiffened. His eyes became icy, regarding the man before him, so real and alive now, not wanting to let himself believe he had awakened, that he was truly back.

"Draco." It was not a question, but a statement that let Draco know he had answered his own question.

Hearing his voice once again, it was husky and unsteady from lack of use but most certainly Harry's, Draco could not let himself doubt any longer, and even if it was a dream he would rather live in this dream with Harry than go back to the nightmare of being helplessly alone before. His eyes softened, unaware of the tears that began to trickle over his thin cheeks.

Harry looked at him in bewilderment, and without thought raised his hand and lightly swept a thumb over the trail of wetness.

"He's gone and I'm back... thanks to you," Harry said softly, his gaze penetrating the man next to him, the one who had stayed next to him even when he had not been himself.

Draco's mouth broke into an unclouded smile. It was a grin Harry had never seen on the boy's face before, one of pure bliss and nothing else.

Draco tentatively reached a hand out to Harry's forehead and brushed some of the untidy hair away from his eyes. Noting Harry's facial muscles relax at his touch, a smile of his own ghosting over his expression, Draco allowed his fingers to graze over Harry's cheek and then trace over his lips. He was sure now, as he felt Harry's warm breath over his fingertips, that this was no illusion.

The hospital room felt warmer than it had ever been in the entire time Draco had come to see Harry over the past twenty-six months. Now everything seemed more complete than they ever had in his entire life.

**A peace had** fallen over the two occupants of the small table, the silence not uncomfortable but more thoughtful: Luna with her chin resting upon a hand, tracing shapes over the bumpy wood of the table's surface as she pondered over Snape and today; Snape reclining, his features a drawing of meditation. It seemed far shorter than three hours ago that Luna had made a rather fumbling entrance and Snape had given her a temperamental homework assignment to practice the way she held her face.

Kneazle was polishing liquor bottles and humming quietly to himself, looking up every so often to the only customers of the day with a grin under his mass of long facial whiskers. It had been somewhat dizzying to register every change of mood in their long conversation but near the end he noticed a lighter air around them both, the girl less fidgety and the man less tense.

Luna broke the silence.

"You know," she paused and made eye contact with him, "I was just wondering Professor Snape, what are trials for really? Your own ate up a year of your life and now it is mostly a forgotten affair, even maybe you, everyone thinking what they will despite the official judgment on courtroom documents. It seems futile in the end if you think about it."

Snape put a finger to his thin lips and rubbed over them lightly as he considered the girl before him.

"In my life, Miss. Lovegood, I have discovered trials to be designed to prove their subject guilty, and perhaps that is why when the innocent are delivered they are quickly forgotten or discarded as objects forever labeled with suspicion." He smiled wryly.

"In fact, I could say one of the reasons I'm here with you right now, among others, is because Hermione wanted everyone to have a more personal record of my account, not just a short remembrance of a dusting file proving my innocence, lain in that garbage disposal of an organization we call the Ministry of Magic."

Luna nearly laughed. "So are we trashing the government now, then? Though I hardly think our newest Minister of Magic would allow such records dealing with The War to waste away. Lupin is a good man…"

Snape stopped her from going on. "Hard as it proves for me to admit, Remus Lupin is as 'good' as they get, and will probably ever get, Miss. Lovegood, but the Ministry he runs still holds most of the minds that molded it before The War."

"So do you believe your trial and its opinion from the Ministry was ultimately a waste?"

"Certainly not. A legal mark of innocence against charges of murder, rape of a minor, and allegiance to the Dark Lord is always a helpful place to start when trying to get one's past erased of the murky underbelly that it does not fully deserve," he replied smoothly, raising an eyebrow, "Yet I can see your point in the sense that instead of mulling over the deeds of Severus Snape in trial they could have been catering to a society in tatters from a war. I believe this world of ours is coming back together fairly well, but the process could have started even sooner. Most of Diagon Alley still holds the air of ruin, even with the repairs to shops and rebuilding of the streets. In years to come I'm sure it will find itself back in normalcy, but for now we wait."

Luna nodded and stared towards the window, as if she could see past its dirty exterior to Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts castle, and the small towns and villages beyond, each recovering just a little bit more with every passing day.

"And how much time is the wait, Professor?" Her eyes were suddenly sullen, and she appeared much older than her nineteen years.

"Wait has no age Miss. Lovegood, and neither does time. Eventually the two commodities merge, when least expected, but we will know when it happens."

"I believe that the wait gets harder with time."

"I believe that the wait it makes all the more sweet when the time comes."

Luna halted herself from giggling at hearing the word "sweet" slip from Snape, but she still smiled up to him, a little shocked but then jolted with thrill when she saw something akin to a smile of his own twist the ends of his mouth upwards.

"A lot of your story has ties with redemption," Luna said quietly, almost speaking to herself. "I wonder if you are redeemed because of the public or if it's something inside of you, far from anyone to witness."

She focused on the former Professor again as she sensed his interest in her words, his head cocking inwards to hear her.

Snape sighed, a sound that had become countless during their meeting and one that Luna now associated with him stalling to prepare his thoughts. But she never had to wait long.

"Miss. Lovegood, if I had given up on the idea of my own redemption sooner rather than later, do you think I would be seated before you now? Redemption is something the public can give you but only fulfilled when found within yourself. Only fools wait for their own redemption rather than seek it."

Luna voiced her perplexity, "So then is everyone allowed to seek redemption from wrongs of the past? Could, say, Lord Voldemort seek his redemption were he to arise from, well, wherever… he is now?"

"Miss. Lovegood, everyone has a right to seek their own redemption, but I also assure you that if the Dark Lord were to stumble upon it, redemption would hex his slithering arse right back into damnation."

Luna's mouth dropped and Snape smirked as she blinked at him, astonished. Regaining composure, she nodded vigorously only saying, "Well, cheers to that!"

"Indeed," he added, taking a swig of Firewhiskey.

There was very little left, and he offered the last sip to her. They drank to redemption rejecting Lord Voldemort.

When the subject was brought up again, it was by Snape.

"If you keep this off record Miss. Lovegood, perhaps I won't regret confiding it to you later."

His tone was strange, but Luna felt compelled to his words and knew she would never repeat what she was about to hear, to anyone, ever.

"When Draco Malfoy and I escaped Hogwarts that night, I made him make a pledge to me and himself. I knew he had rethought his promise to Lord Voldemort, and I knew he was learning just how real the fight between Light and Dark had become, had always been. Most of all I knew he wanted nothing to do The War, and that he wanted forgiveness.

"At that point he still thought I was on the Dark Lord's side and that my murder of Dumbledore was just as much a strike against him as it was a mark in my favor to Voldemort. To ease his panic I had to let him know the truth about my allegiances and myself. I told him that if he wanted any chance of redemption for himself he would have to do everything in his power to aid Harry Potter through The War and after; that is, if Draco survived, because I also made him aware it was very likely he would die. His nemesis was a prime key to him seeking redemption from himself, a fact that I had discovered in a most unfortunate way over the death of Lily and James Potter over a decade and a half before," Snape looked away, his expression suddenly haggard.

"I do hope that Draco listened to me that night, and that he is doing well by himself and the comatose Mr. Potter."

Luna was not sure if there was a response she could make to that, but her attempt seemed to work as Snape's face unwound itself at her words.

"You know that feeling you have that Harry will awake, Professor? I have just as much trust in Draco Malfoy being alongside him when that happens, and that he will have his own redemption once Harry opens his eyes, if not before."

She smiled. "I feel as though it's written in the stars."

"Perhaps it is Miss. Lovegood, perhaps it is." Snape responded in a tone that showed he at least somewhat valued her optimism.

Their farewell happened naturally. Soon after this last sentiment the sense of closure became apparent to them both and chairs scraped loudly against the floor (nearly causing Kneazle to topple from the stool he had been dozing upon) as they stood and stretched and breathed out sighs of relief.

Luna thanked him profusely and he mumbled that it had not been as much of a disgrace to an afternoon as he originally thought it would be. He put out a hand and they had shook.

Snape left and it was only after did Luna notice she had not recorded any of the afternoon down on parchment and far before, months before, her written thoughts of that day were presented to the world - but not through The Quibbler. The piece appeared in her own small pamphlet started with a roll of galleons earned by selling one of her father's kilts, embroidered with violet Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, to an odd fellow named Benny Giberson. Severus Snape would become a reluctant, but redeemed, hero figure and Luna Lovegood the most reputable reporter of her time.

But before all of that came about, she stood by her seat in The Hole and watched flabbergasted as Snape reappeared through its opening, minutes after his initial leave, slightly breathless as strode up to her in a manner that reminded Luna of herself just a few hours before.

He towered over the girl and looked as if he were struggling not to escape back into daylight once more; instead, with a resolute determination, he asked, "Would you care to join Hermione and I for tea sometime? Or perhaps a drink, bid you please not order Firewhiskey."

"Oh, I would absolutely love that, Professor." Luna beamed, ignoring his jibe at her low capacity to hold her alcohol. Her eyes flickered around quickly before in an exaggerated whisper, "But you can pick the place next time!"

"There was never a doubt in my mind that I would do so, Miss. Lovegood."

**Writing Credits**

_Hogwarts_ A.K.A Team Captain for Challenge 4 A.K.A prime editoress of Epilogue- From the very beginning up until the end of Snape and Luna's discussion over Ron. Snape and Luna's discussion over The War and The War scene itself. The end scene, where the discussion between Snape and Luna wraps up with the mention of tea and more Firewhiskey.

_Mel_, who second bested Hogwarts by taking on four parts to work her magic with- The second actual Draco and Harry scene in which Draco somewhat overuses the term "fuck," but it works. Neville's scene, though Mimby was the star. Snape and Dumbledore performing "ancient magic" out in the Forbidden Forest scene. The second to last scene, in which Draco dreams, Harry meets Voldemort once again, and then he wakes up and Draco escapes his living nightmare.

_Jen_, who was Hogwarts' therapist and eager to help in any way- Ron's scene as he leaves for the states. Harry's scene where we see what has been going on inside his mind since two years before.

_Pixie_, who plays a mean game of golf and molds great writing at the side- The scene in which Blaise and Ginny encounter each other.

_Angela_, who makes quick time with her writing while managing to keep it first-class- When Luna gets pissed on Snape's Firewhiskey and talks of Nifflers and Giant Squids.

_Rachel_, who understands a character's mind frame better than we know our own- The scene where Ginny visits Harry and then in the same bit Draco comes along later.

_Stacey_, who likes it long and rough and so damn good (her writing, that is!)- The scene in which Ron and Hermione have their last confrontation at her home.

_Stevan_, who writes twelve-minute speeches for eight-minute timeslots- When Snape gets overwhelmed with Luna and begins to degrade her life before apologizing and ordering fish and chips.

_Tiger_, who wanted Voldemort to belly dance because anything is better than it being Dan Rad- The scene in which we look into Tonks and Lupin's married life. Voldemort's scene in the Forbidden Forrest.

_Nines_, who includes The Unisock perfectly and effortlessly into a fanfiction of Harry Potter- Flashback to November of 1995, in which we see Luna and Snape interact as teacher and student.

_Acara_, who like Nines, came back from an absence and took on a part with no hesitation; bless them- In which Snape and Luna discuss how Dumbledore's death was preplanned to save many, many lives.


End file.
